The Magus – John Fowles (1966)

Rating: Sublime

Initially The Magus seems intimidating, boasting 650 pages of dense type. Then there is its reputation as one of the great cult books; described as being a cascade of literary, philosophical and psychological pretensions in Gina McKinnon’s 500 Essential Cult Books (2010). Whilst such descriptions are relevant, the novel offers far more than these perfunctory summations, being one of those genuine masterpieces that can both challenge and enthral the reader. Fowles spent over ten years writing the book and also ended up rewriting sections for a new edition released in 1977. The Magus is a complex novel and will take you on an enthralling journey if you are prepared to invest both time and patience.

Set in post WWII Britain, the novel’s protagonist – Nicholas Urfe, is both inhibited by his upbringing and restless within his own middle class society. The novel is divided into three sections, with the first being concerned with Nicholas’ life in the shadow of his parents and the stifling conformity of early 1950’s Britain and also his early days in Greece. This initial section is by no means a dull prologue, with Fowles revealing an unpretentious narrative style that displays a clear and sparse beauty, particularly in the later sections set in Greece.

In frustration Nicholas applies for and gains employment at an exclusive private school on a remote Greek island known as Phraxos (based on the island of Spetsai, where Fowles taught English at the Anargyrios College in the 1950’s). Before he is able to leave he becomes involved with an Australian woman called Alison. He spurns her love and arrives in Greece in a conflicted state of mind.  His lonely exploration of the small island soon brings him into contact with Maurice Conchis, the eponymous ‘Magus’ figure of the book. Having heard about this mysterious character during a brief meeting with his predecessor Nicholas can’t help but be curious.

“Are you elect?” This is the question that Maurice Conchis asks Nicholas just before Conchis starts to take him, and the reader, down some vary strange paths. I looked up the meaning of this word and I believe that Fowles uses this term as a noun, meaning either a person worthy to be chosen, or the theological meaning: when a person or persons are chosen by God, especially for favour or salvation. After finishing this remarkable novel I believe that this is a question that is also aimed at the reader.

The long middle section can only be described as a total head-trip. I cannot think of a more apt term to describe the shifting realities of Nicholas’s interaction with Conchis and the philosophical and metaphysical concepts that challenge Nicholas’s conception of his own place in the cosmos. This section is supremely suspenseful and I totally surrendered to Fowles’ tricks as he drove the narrative forward with increasingly mysterious and extreme events. I found myself thinking about the book constantly and was driven to read it to discover just what was going to happen next, making this novel perhaps the most enjoyable I’ve read for quite some time. The Magus is also perhaps the most intense book I’ve ever read. I advise you to read this book when you have plenty of time to think about its themes and also to have time to recover from the tension it creates. I suggest some fine red wine to facilitate both!

John Fowles: he was elect.

Fowles has been described as one of the first British post-modern writers. I can’t personally judge the validity of this claim, however the novel does invite the reader to make their own judgments about the meaning of Nicholas’s experiences at the hands of the duplicitous Conchis and his never-ending ‘masque’. Fowles has famously refused to explain the meaning of The Magus, except on one rare occasion, of which I suggest you read after you’ve tackled the novel and thought about it yourself. I came to three conclusions about the meaning of what Fowles was portraying during the course of the novel, two of which correspond roughly with his summation and a third that did not. I’m not going to talk about what I believe the novel is about because each new reader will need to come to his or her own conclusions. Let me know what you thought or contact me if you want to know what I thought.

The third and final section of the novel finds Nicholas back in England a changed man in search of answers. This section’s bleak tone and slow pacing is in stark contrast to the intense middle section, but works well as a necessary coda to the events of the rest of the book. The ending is famous for being inconclusive and baffling, however after thinking about it for some time I realised that it is totally apt and fits well with my own conclusions about the book; in fact it serves to push you in the right direction if your eyes are open. The Magus is a work of genius and for the first time in the short history of this blog I'm awarding a sublime rating.

Jack Kerouac

Ah, Jack Kerouac, the literary love of my life. Kerouac is the author of my all time favourite book - The Dharma Bums (1958). Kerouac is simply the most inspirational writer I’ve ever had the pleasure to read. Inspiration, insight, confusion, joy, despair and existential wonder - I’ve experienced all of these things and more from Kerouac’s writing. 

Jack Kerouac first came into my literary orbit when I was in my early 20’s. A ripe time to get into the Beats one would think, but despite the allure of the two louche figures arm in arm on the cover of On the Road (1957) the book failed to really interest me. The tale of a loner leaving home and embarking on an odyssey across the bulk of America, with its hip anachronisms, Americanisms and the obsession with cars and jazz just didn’t do it for me at the time. I finished it and moved on, slightly disappointed.

A few years later a friend slipped me a copy of The Dharma Bums, after a night of red wine and other frivolous indulgences. Seems I was ready for Kerouac this time. The Dharma Bums connected with me on some deep previously unknown level. Responding to nebulous yearnings I didn’t really understand I totally connected with Ray Smith, the spiritual seeker character based on Kerouac himself (nearly all of Kerouac’s novels are autobiographical). Ray Smith travels mostly around the west coast of America, hooking up with his friend Japhy Ryder, who is exploring Buddhism. The highlight of the novel comes when they climb a mountain and talk about nature and Buddhism. Kerouac’s prose here is amongst the most beautiful and inspired I’ve ever read. The novel also created a conflicted duality within me. I simultaneously felt incredibly inspired and also depressed that I wasn’t living my life to the fullest.

I went back and read On the Road and this time I totally connected with Kerouac’s special turn of phrase, the rolling flow of words, the liveliness, joy and fervor. It was like I’d stumbled onto a new way of seeing the world, a totally unique perspective. Recently I flicked through it and read some of the descriptions of Sal and Dean freaking out to jazz in sweaty clubs. Now that I’m heavily into jazz it’s about time I read the original scroll version (the book was written on a roll of paper fed into the typewriter so that Kerouac would not be interrupted by having to change the paper). For newcomers, however, I recommend the original novel.

Kerouac’s writing is replete with beauty, insight and innovation, as well as despair, ugliness and dysfunction. Some of his books can be infuriating, but when he hits his stride his writing is transforming. He’s certainly had his critics, with Truman Capote famously referring to his writing as “typing.” I refute such criticism however; the spontaneous prose style he developed allows for a direct insight into the complexities of what it is to be human and that certainly includes both the exulted and the banal. When you read Kerouac you are reading the moment – its pulse, flow and rhythm. The prose can, as Kerouac desired, be like listening to Jazz.

Kerouac’s bibliography is filled with inspirational works and also others that are impenetrable or best tackled as a seasoned reader of Kerouac. Kerouac was prolific, so I’ll discuss only a few of his works here. For the novice I recommend both On the Road and The Dharma Bums. The short story collection – Lonesome Traveler (1960), which is actually entries from Kerouac’s travel journals, is beautiful and evocative. Desolation Angels (1965), written and set when On the Road was published, suffers slightly from fractured digressions, but provides insight into Kerouac’s internal struggles. Particularly poignant are the sections when he is stationed on a remote mountain (Desolation Peak) working as a fire lookout in Washington State’s wilderness areas. Here Kerouac faces his demons before descending back into an America that is busy reading the just published On the Road.

The Subterraneans (1958) is a novella that delves into the jazz scene and finds the protagonist, Leo Percepied (Kerouac) in a relationship with an African American woman. Utilizing Kerouac’s spontaneous prose style, the book acts as a fine snapshot of what his writing was all about. Big Sur (1962) presents Kerouac – aka Jack Duluoz, as a post fame alcoholic attempting to find solace in a cabin in Big Sur, a central coastal region south of San Francisco. Some of the same characters from his earlier works once again appear, however the tone of the book is dark and at times harrowing. It’s very sad to read about Kerouac’s decline but it does make his humanity shine through. It’s well worth reading but is more enjoyable if you are familiar with Kerouac’s earlier works.

Kerouac’s spontaneous prose, his autobiographical rawness, the jazz like rhythm and flow of his writing will certainly not appeal to all readers; however if you want to immerse yourself in 50’s American beat culture then look no further. With friends like William Burroughs and Alan Ginsberg, Kerouac was right at the centre of this fascinating underground culture. Most of its key figures appear as characters in Kerouac’s books, providing insight into a rebellious culture that foreshadowed the 60’s hippy movement.

An early shot of Kerouac (second from left), Ginsberg and Burroughs.

The key to reading Kerouac is to just let your self be pulled along by the flow of the prose, to accept its flaws and to be open enough to revel in its triumphs. What Kerouac’s writing represents is an authentic exploration of the human spirit in all its existential glory. In this way his writing can be exceptionally inspiring. It can also be maddening and erratic, but this is part of its charm. If you want to try something different, then Kerouac’s writing is an adventure waiting to happen.

The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie – Muriel Spark (1961)

Rating: Excellent

The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie is a deceptive book. Its effortless style is so perfect that the themes presented only reveal themselves gradually. I cruised through most of the book admiring the writing but wondering just what was the point of it all? It wasn’t until to two thirds of the way through that the full ramifications of what Spark was presenting hit home. I soon realised that the book is an example of psychological fiction at its best.

Set in 1930’s Edinburgh the novella (it’s only 126 pages long) examines the relationship between a teacher  - Jean Brodie and her ‘set’; six ten year old girls. Brodie has an unconventional attitude toward teaching, which mainly involves interactions based on her opinions and experiences, with a touch classical education thrown in to broaden their minds. Each girl is described as being famous for something – Rose is famous for sex (in the future, not at ten!) and Sandy is famous for her English vowel sounds and notorious for her small, almost non- existent eyes. They fair better than Mary, who is famous for being a “silent lump, a nobody that everyone could blame.” The principle thing they have in common is their loyalty to Miss Jean Brodie and how that influences their lives both while they are at the school and into the future.

Brodie’s influence over her set continues even after she stops being their teacher, inviting them to her home for supper and for long walks. The girls are gradually drawn into an adult world of which they only had limited insight previously. The headmistress, who is judgmental about Brodie’s methods, pumps the girls for information about Brodie that could be used to dismiss her. Brodie presents herself as being in her prime and the girls refer to it continually. It becomes a catch phrase that justifies Brodie’s behaviour. Meanwhile a love triangle develops between Brodie, the one armed art teacher and the music teacher. This adult world of duplicity, lust and self-deception casts an increasingly dark tone over proceedings. The themes of power, narcissism and fascism are the subtexts that give this slight book an impact that comes seemingly from nowhere. Brodie travels to Italy and Germany and speaks highly of the benefits of fascism in those countries. She admires how organised they are and talks of what a great example they set. It only takes a subtle shift on behalf of the reader in order to start viewing Brodie’s efforts to influence her set as something akin to fascism.

Spark’s prose is beautiful and succinct, a style that lulls the reader with its charms, all the while pulling the reader into its darker subtexts. Spark also liberally uses the technique of flash forwarding - moving the narrative forward in time suddenly in order to reveal a character’s future or fate. Rather than being disruptive this technique is quite effective and gives the reader further insight into the influence that Brodie has on the girls later on in their lives. The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie is an impressive achievement and I can understand why this book is regularly included in lists of the greatest books of the twentieth century. After reading The Man Who Loved Children (1940), also set in the 1930s, The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie felt like a literary holiday, but now I’m not so sure! The book has recently been published as one of those $10 orange Penguins, a small investment to make for a book with a lot to say about human nature and the perils of the transition from youth to adulthood.

Marrow – Robert Reed (2000)

Rating: Excellent

Marrow has come as a complete surprise to me. Although I do love science fiction and have been reading it since before I reached the age of 10 (inspired by all those great science fiction movies of the late 70’s, such as Close Encounters of the Third Kind) my knowledge of what’s out there has diminished over the years. When I saw Marrow at my library I grabbed it because it has one of those great old school covers of a vast space ship – it always appeals. I’d never heard of Robert Reed and assumed that he was a new author. In fact Robert Reed has been around since the eighties and his first novel – The Hormone Jungle emerged in 1988.

Marrow’s premise is simple - future humans detect a massive ship heading towards the galaxy and they manage to board and commandeer the deserted ship before other galactic species manage to beat them to it. The ship is impressively huge – bigger than Jupiter, and is totally mysterious in terms of its origin, purpose and destination. The ship (it’s always just referred to as ‘the ship’) is so multifaceted, so huge and so much a part of this novel that it is entirely appropriate that the opening section is told from the perspective of the ship.

Marrow is divided into sections. The second section, which is appropriately called Marrow, begins with the introduction of Washen - just one of the great characters that populate this entertaining tale. Washen, like all of the humans that live during this time, is virtually immortal thanks to gene therapy that has transformed the human body into a healing powerhouse. The way that immortality is dealt with in Marrow is impressive, exploring both the practical and existential issues that come with it. Reed’s imaginative powers are excellent and he combines it with a hard sci-fi sense of what might just be possible. At times I found myself thinking of Iain M. Banks and his Culture novels, which display a similar imaginative prowess.

The immortal humans may have technology on their side but Reed makes them all too human, with a broad range of subtle and interesting characterizations that help make characters such as Washen (rebellious and complex), Miocine (intense and bitter) and Pamir (an unconventional and ugly individualist) easy to relate to. Such engaging characters are important because the scope of the novel is so huge. The Marrow section, for example, details events over nearly five thousand years, but despite this you are with the characters all the way. This section is easily the most impressive of the book, with tension building continually around the mystery of what lies at the heart of the ship. The mystery behind the ship and its core is brilliantly compelling and is woven into the narrative so well that you never want to put the book down.

Along the way there are plenty of weird aliens and awesome technology on display. The humans take the ship on a tour of the galaxy, picking up paying alien passengers, which sometimes leads to interesting problems. The ship is filled with habitats, including one suspended above a hydrogen sea contained within a tank the size of a moon. Such entertaining distractions are not relied upon by Reed however, as the plot is well thought out and brilliantly executed.

By the time you get to the last third of the novel the tension and mystery is almost unbearable. When the tension is finally released during the novel’s intense endgame it comes almost as a disappointment. Fortunately there is a sequel – The Well of Stars (2004), which no doubt explains some of the unsolved mysteries left dangling at the conclusion of the novel.

Marrow is an impressive achievement, overflowing with great characters and an intricate plot. Reed’s imagination is equal to the task of making the space opera a fresh proposition. It has been quite a while since I’ve enjoyed a science fiction novel as much as Marrow and I thoroughly recommended the book to those whose disposition lends itself to science fiction.

Bill Campbell Book Shop – Fremantle

I remember the first time I stumbled across this secondhand bookstore. Not being a resident of Perth’s port city – Fremantle, I didn’t really know that it existed. Situated down an old street in Fremantle that still retains all the old buildings from the port’s early history, the shop exudes the ample charm of the past.

The shop front provides a clear view inside, allowing you to see books lined up on their wooden shelves, in particular a whole section of vintage Penguins. Old packing cases full of books sit on either side of the front door, offering specials. The shop itself is very well set up, with glass cabinets containing rare and valuable books and clearly labeled sections for genres like science fiction, crime, literature and non-fiction of all kinds.

The literature section contains some top quality authors, which is complemented by the vintage Penguin section in the same area. If you are seriously into literature then this is the place to come. Being Fremantle there is a great maritime and local history section. The shop also offers a superb philosophy section for those who are looking for existential guidance (that’s me by the way). Children and parents don’t miss out either, with a great section of quality kids and YA books.

The shop offers some specialist areas, with a collection of first editions that are stored upstairs and can be viewed on request. For those with a fetish for a book with a particular cover or rare edition then you are well looked after in this shop. There is also a collection of leather bound Folio Society books, something I’ve never seen before. They are particularly beautiful and some are by authors of renown, like Dostoyevsky and Nabokov, whilst others are more exotic and obscure. When I was last there in January I was very tempted by these books and will probably escort my wallet in there one day soon and buy some of them.

I had a pleasant chat with the owner  - Bill Campbell. He’s been trading at this shop for seven years and loves being in the book business. He was very friendly and gladly showed me around his shop and revealed his extensive knowledge about the second-hand book business. If you venture down to his shop don’t hesitate to ask for a bit of advice.

The shop is situated at 48 High St Fremantle. Give Bill a call on 9336 3060.

Check it out!

The Man Who Loved Children – Christina Stead (1940)

Rating: Excellent

It is perhaps an unfortunate fact that dysfunction often makes for a great reading experience. Other peoples’ pain, when portrayed in literature, creates tragedy and compelling drama. Few books I’ve read come close to the portrayal of familial dysfunction found within the pages of The Man Who Loved Children. Christina Stead, who was born in Australia, based The Man Who Loved Children on her childhood. Her father was David Stead, a renowned Australian naturalist. If Stead’s childhood was even remotely like the one portrayed in this remarkable book then I’m amazed that she survived. But survive she did, until the age of 81, after having lived most of her life away from Australia in Europe and the USA.

Jonathan Franzen wrote the introduction in the most recent edition of The Man Who Loved Children. He both champions the novel and also laments its relative obscurity, pointing out that it is much easier to read than the likes of James Joyce’s Ulysses (1922). The novel is certainly easier to deal with than the highly allusive Ulysses, however it does offer its own particular version of the ‘difficult novel’ and challenges the readers’ endurance and patience.

The Man Who Loved Children centres on the Pollit family, husband and wife – Sam and Henrietta (Henny) and their six children, including the fourteen year old Louisa. Sam is a total egotist and thoroughly narcissistic and the family serves as a means to confirm his existence as what he refers to as the great I-am. Sam insinuates himself into every aspect of his children’s lives, giving them no sense of freedom or individuality. Louisa, being the eldest, is the most rebellious amongst the children. She often tries to put Sam in his place intellectually but Sam is such a narcissist that no other views can gain traction.

Whilst Sam is an egoistical force of nature Henny is a damaged figure, worn down by successive pregnancies and Sam’s dysfunctions, in particular his ceaseless opinionated chatter. They are so estranged that at the beginning of the novel they have barely spoken to each other directly for two years. The children are given the task of messengers between the two warring adults. Henny is frustrated and angry, which often culminates in bouts of vitriolic rage against Sam and the children, particularly the fat and clumsy Louisa. Henny at first elicits sympathy from the reader, but as the novel progresses her character becomes a grotesque and unlikable figure.

The Man Who Loved Children is not particularly plot driven; instead there is a slow inexorable journey to a terrible climax. During most of its 514 pages the novel focuses on the mad world of the Pollit family, with occasional diversions like when Sam travels to Asia for work purposes. There is very little interior monologue as most of the time the characters display their thoughts and feelings by what they say and do. The main character that Stead allows some interior life is Louisa, who increasingly tries to escape the influence of her crazy family. The other children remain peripheral figures, mainly defined by their relationship with their parents.

The prose is heavy with dialogue, perhaps too much so, although this allows the manic and desperate energy of the Pollit family to be fully conveyed. Sam overflows with words, producing dubious tales based on his own peculiar world-view. He has many pet names for his children, such as Womey, Megalops and Bluebeak (a name for Louisa at one stage, although he normally calls her Looloo). Sam is both cruel and manipulative toward his children but is at other times supportive and proud, creating moral ambiguity. It is Henny that sarcastically refers to him as the man who loves children, viewing it as a source of pain rather than something to celebrate.

Stead’s style is unique, at least in comparison to other literature I’ve read. To read it means that you are drawn so thoroughly into the Pollit’s world that at the end you wonder just where you have been. Somewhere particularly disturbing is perhaps the natural conclusion, although this is not necessarily a bad thing. The dysfunctions and ructions that seethe throughout the book make for an outrageous kind of voyeurism. Both Sam and Henny compete for the reader’s attention as the most compelling adult character. A Feminist perspective may call for the demonisation of Sam, however Henny’s character outdoes Sam in terms of sheer unhinged behavior and in some ways she seems to relish the role of victim hood. Franzen comments in his forward that he is amazed that The Man Who Loved Children is not included as a part of every women’s-studies curriculum in universities. Perhaps it is because the novel is more about human monstrousness rather than the flaws displayed by either sex.

Although set in 1930’s Washington in America, Stead’s tale of a dysfunctional family is a universal one. The pathos of Henny’s inescapable trap and the bittersweet triumph of Louisa’s escape connect with the reader in compelling ways. The final 100 pages or so are brilliantly written, involving Sam’s mad scheme to extract oil from a marlin by boiling it for hours overnight in the laundry tub. Sam expects that the oil will be a panacea for the family’s physical ills and as a means to fuel various machines around the poverty stricken house. Meanwhile a storm brews both literally and metaphorically as the narrative leads to climatic scenes that are both inevitable and shocking. 

Considering that The Man Who Loved Children provides such an intense and challenging reading experience I pondered over the question of whether such a novel can be enjoyable or worthwhile. Does great literature need to be enjoyable? One would expect the answer to be yes, however I’m not so sure about that. An enjoyable reading experience is not a guarantee of a unique or worthwhile experience. As in everyday life it’s often the difficult experiences that reward us the most. The Man Who Loved Children is the literary equivalent of having a difficult year and coming out the other end with the benefit of experience and insight, but at the same time hoping that you will never have that experience again.

Keep the Aspidistra Flying – George Orwell (1936)

Rating: Admirable

George Orwell needs no introduction. Even the least literary amongst us would be aware of Orwell due to the hugely significant novels 1984 (1949) and Animal Farm (1945). The concept of ‘Big Brother’ is all-pervasive and many other Orwellian phrases and notions are commonplace, such as ‘newspeak’, ‘thought police’ and ‘doublethink’. Apparently the above two books combined have sold more copies than any other two books by any other author. Keep the Aspidistra Flying, Orwell’s third published book, is one of his lesser-known works but does have some themes in common with the rest of his oeuvre.

Like 1984 and Animal Farm, Keep the Aspidistra Flying has a social conscience and a political message. Orwell, who was a democratic socialist, used the novel as a vehicle to critique capitalism. Orwell’s protagonist - Gordon Comstock, works in a bookstore and spends his spare time writing poetry and cursing capitalism, so much so that he enjoys imagining a war and bombs falling on the streets of London. As the novel is set (and written) in the 1930’s these images are very chilling. Orwell certainly saw the fascist writing on the wall.

Comstock is a stubborn and pathetic character but is nonetheless a rebel with a cause. When he’s not trying to write his mediocre poetry he’s thinking about money - how money dominates everything when you do have it, but also when you try and deny its power and importance. This is the central irony within the novel and it is illustrated throughout in various ways. Comstock doesn’t have money as a result of leaving a promising job as a copywriter in an advertising firm to earn below par wages at the bookstore. The tone of the book is decidedly bleak mainly due to Comstock’s unending gripes against capitalism. This has a tendency to wear down the reader and there is a feeling that Orwell is overdoing it a bit. The first third of the book contains descriptions of his miserable life having to refuse invitations to the pub because he can’t afford it and the farce of having to sneak cups of tea in his bed-sit because his draconian landlady forbids it.

The oppressive tone is relieved somewhat by Comstock’s interactions with his girlfriend – Rosemary, who he met while working at the advertising agency. However even these interactions are blighted by Comstock’s poverty and his refusal to borrow money. Rosemary loves him but refuses to sleep with him, leaving him in an even more frustrated state. Such is his rebellion against capitalism he’d rather suffer like this than sacrifice his life to a ‘good job’, a family and the traditional aspidistra plant on the windowsill. Typically Comstock’s family just cannot understand his stubbornness in this matter. Ironically neither can Comstock’s mentor and supporter – Ravelston, who publishes poetry in his socialist magazine, aptly titled – Antichrist. Ravelston acts as a counterpart to Comstock, underlying the inherent contradictions and ironies that manifest when individuals who live in a capitalist society try to live life outside its boundaries. Ravelston is a wealthy man of leisure who runs his socialist magazine out of a well meaning but misguided attempt to make a difference. Despite this he still has a mistress, lives in a comfortable flat and dines at the finest restaurants. These contradictions and the awkward interactions between the two give the narrative substance.

The romance between Rosemary and Comstock also serves to illustrate money’s insidious hold over people’s lives. Pathos ensues when they go on trip to the countryside. Comstock is determined to pay for everything himself and due to circumstances it all comes undone. Even his attempts to seduce Rosemary are doomed to failure in part due to his financial situation. Things get worse when Comstock finally earns some real money from selling a poem. Instead of being sensible with the money it goes straight to his poverty stricken head and he blows it all on a night on the town which ends in drunken disaster. This section of the book is the most engaging and effective. Orwell displays the corrupting influence of money and underlines it with the resultant bathos suffered by Comstock. From here the novel veers into painful territory before some kind of redemption results. Meanwhile the reader is under no illusion as to what Orwell’s message is.

Keep the Aspidistra Flying is autobiographical in nature. Orwell spent time living in poverty in the poorest sections of London. The novel contains simple yet powerful descriptions of life in London post Great Depression and are no doubt based on his experiences living and moving amongst the poorer classes. Some of his experiences were documented in his famous book - Down and Out in Paris and London (1933). Orwell also worked in a bookstore called Booklovers Corner in Hampstead, resulting in the essay – Bookshop Memories (1936). The character of Ravelston is based on a wealthy socialist - Sir Richard Rees, a great friend of Orwell’s who made Orwell his protégé and published his short works.

Keep the Aspidistra Flying is a challenging novel to read, not because it is impenetrable or mediocre but because of its oppressive realism and the unrelenting neurotic nature of the protagonist.  Orwell illustrates the impossible task of living outside of the capitalist system whilst living within that same society only too well. Like Rosemary the reader becomes frustrated with Comstock’s obstinate nature and the hopelessness of his situation. For me this was contrasted with actually identifying with Comstock on personal level, which perhaps made him a far more sympathetic character in my eyes. Other readers may find the bleak tone and the central theme of the book too difficult to relate to. Even so Keep the Aspidistra Flying is certainly worthy of attention, although it does not have the same impact and importance of his most significant works, 1984 and Animal Farm.