In the spring of 1946, George Orwell, writing in the London Tribune, opened with a view from underneath the rock:
In a cold but stuffy bed-sitting room littered with cigarette ends and half-empty cups of tea, a man in a moth-eaten dressing-gown sits at a rickety table, trying to find room for his typewriter among the piles of dusty papers that surround it. He cannot throw the papers away because the wastepaper basket is already overflowing, and besides, somewhere among the unanswered letters and unpaid bills it is possible that there is a cheque for two guineas which he is nearly certain he forgot to pay into the bank. . . .
Half hidden among the pile of papers is a bulky parcel containing five volumes which his editor has sent with…
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The New Yorker (Digital) - 1 Issue, March 7, 2016