On the whole it was a very enjoyable evening. The book we discussed was Down and Out in Paris and London, George Orwell's semi-autobiographical account of his years living in poverty in the eponymous cities. Orwell is a lucid, compelling and quite captivating writer, whether he is describing the mayhem and long hours working in a Paris hotel, or a whole host of fascinating characters that he chances upon in both Paris and London, he is very much able to put a human face on poverty. His descriptions of working in a kitchen in Paris as a plongeur is shocking to say the least in its vivid portrayal of dirt and grime where hygiene far from being a buzzword, is very much an afterthought.
Orwell also excels in describing the whole host of tramps, beggars and assorted misfits that he chances upon while he is down and out, from a Russian friend determined to win back a job as a waiter (despite a gamy leg), with whom he scours Paris for work, to the characters that haunt the cafes, bars and cheap lodging houses of the city. While out of work in London, Orwell chances on a whole host of interesting characters, including a particularly fascinating philosophical chalk artist called Bozo, who reads Shakespeare, acts as an amateur astronomer (he watches for comets) and is sadly, only so interesting because he is quite unrepresentative of the rest of the tramps who have been worn down to a nub by grinding poverty.
Of course, given his socialist leanings, Orwell peppers his book with commentary about poverty, but these have the immense benefit of being informed by personal experience and hardship. This is rather unlike the moralistic hectoring that tends to predominate in any writing on poverty, whether accusing these individuals of being wastrels and being a tremendous burden on society, or presenting them as victims of circumstance unconscionably neglected and forgotten by others. The great irony of course is that those who write about poverty are often individuals who have never gone a day without food and who have wanted for nothing. Orwell strikes a rather balanced note, and is well-served by letting his own descriptions speak for themselves. Anyone reading about the harsh disciplinarian treatment that one is subject to at a Salvation Army shelter is bound to shudder at how these men are treated if not quite as animals, then at the bare minimum wayward and slightly thick schoolboys who need to be shown a firm hand.
The book, given its central theme of poverty lent itself nicely to a discussion of poverty in modern day societies. One central topic of debate was over welfare - or in the case of some countries in Singapore, the lack thereof. There were legitimate questions being raised about the propensity of many individuals to bear a sense of victimhood and to have a sense of expectation that society owes them a debt (whether justified or not). However, there was a general appreciation about how poverty is often an accelerating downward spiral and the fact that individuals often need assistance not merely to climb out of but merely to see the possibility of a future for themselves in such circumstances.
As the evening progressed, the discussion turned to a whole host of wide-ranging topics, from euthanasia, and whether we should support it, the Singapore organ donation act, HIV/Aids education, single unwed mothers, and many other fascinating topics. I must say that it was quite delightful to be part of a enlivening intellectual discussion once again, and it was something that I missed greatly from my time at Oxford. I have high hopes that future book club meetings will be as fascinating.
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