George Orwell: An Author of Talent and Versatility

George Orwell

I would expect that almost anyone in Britain has, at one time or another, read Orwell’s work.  Perhaps you studied ‘Nineteen Eighty-Four’ at school, or else have been moved to read his political essays.  Maybe you had simply heard his name, and wanted to see what all the fuss was about.  For whatever reason, most people have read at least some Orwell in their lifetime.

Such widespread popularity is testament to his skill as a writer, for people would not still be reading his work now, seventy years on, if it was not worth it.  I myself have recently come into possession of a copy of ‘Animal Farm’, and look forward to adding to it to my repertoire.

One of the things that makes him such an appealing author is his range of subjects.  Most of his work has political undertones, but the surface topic varies quite radically.  The English language, for instance, is one of his favourites, and can be found in the same book as an essay on ‘Shooting an Elephant’, from 1936.

His depth of feeling is another.  Orwell, I think it is safe to say, does not emote by halves.  It is impossible to read a single page of his work without stumbling over some adjective or verb which instils the reader with a powerful mental image, and an understanding of the situation described as few writers are capable of creating.

In addition, the imagery in Orwell’s writing is spectacular.  One of his expressed ‘rules’ is that an author ought to ask himself, “Is this image fresh enough to have an effect?”  To this end, he often invents new metaphors, to fit the situation he is describing.  For instance, in his essay ‘Politics and the English Language’, he says:

...an accumulation of stale phrases chokes him like tea leaves blocking a sink.

Or, to take a more affecting example, in ‘Down the Mine’ there appears the phrase:

…the unending rattle of the conveyor belt, which in that confined space is rather like the rattle of a machine gun.

Such terms as the above cannot help but move the reader to emotion, which is, of course, his precise aim.

George Orwell causes one to feel, to sympathise, to become enthralled in his writing until the only possible source of satisfaction has become the turning of the page.  Such an ability is, in a writer, invaluable, but is rarely seen performed with such skill.  That is why he is such a popular author, even so long after the public were first exposed to his works.  He manages to create an intimacy between author and reader that could only be replicated by, say, a fireside chat in winter, and at the same time causes one to think in ways that one has never before even considered.  In short, George Orwell remains popular because he performs exactly as an author should.

The Atomic Conscience: Should physicists feel responsible for the bomb?

The iconic 'mushroom cloud'

I have been reading the excellent book, 'Brighter than a Thousand Suns', and this is what came of it.  Just imagine, for the moment, that this is the 1940s, and my chosen topic is therefore still something of a contentious novelty...

Should Faraday, if he had lived impossibly long enough learn of it, have felt himself responsible for the electric chair?  Of course this analogy is not a perfect one, because at the time of development, there was no suggestion that the electrical current might be used as an implement of torture.  In this, Faraday is like Hahn; a scientist whose early work with radioactivity revealed the astonishing power in the heart of an atom.

But, what of the other atomic physicists, working for the US government at the ‘atomic cities’ during WWII?  They knew that their work was intended for the ‘war effort’, and that as subsidiaries of the US military, they would not necessarily be able to limit the use of their creations to the purely peaceful.  In spite of this, many still consented to work on the bomb.

However, they cannot, surely, be held wholly responsible for their actions?  The majority of employees at Los Alamos, for instance, were unaware toward what goal they were working.  In addition to this, even the scientists who did know about the proposed atomic bomb were, like almost all of the world at that time, swept up in feelings of patriotic duty and national pride.  These emotions led them to make judgements which would normally be out of character for them, and which many later regretted.

One way of dealing with this regret was, for atomic physicists in particular, to protest against the use of this new source of immense energy to destructive ends.  These objections became especially loud following the detonation of the atomic bomb over Hiroshima, and again upon the development of the ‘H-bomb’.  Were these men genuinely repenting for their perceived ‘sins’, or was it a case of playing to the public?  I am given to suspect the former.  Assuming that I am correct, however, it still remains to say whether their conscience came too late into action – a question for those better placed to judge their fellow man than I, I feel.

It must be remembered, in the midst of such a smorgasbord of inner turmoil and public expressions of guilt, that emotions have no real impact upon past actions.  The apologies of these physicists are gratifying, yes, but they do not change the fact that the same men knowingly developed, as only they could, the means of constructing a more powerful bomb than had ever been seen.  They knew that their work would be used by the military, and – barring a very small number – they continued anyway.

Perhaps the most satisfactory conclusion to draw is that the atomic scientists of that war were indeed responsible for their respective parts played in the production of such a deadly and inhumane weapon.  However, their regret that they were party to such an act seems genuine, and in this case, they ought perhaps to be afforded the benefit of the doubt.  It is my belief, therefore, that these men should be held responsible for their actions, and subsequently forgiven for them.