Symphony Concert, and then perhaps a spot of licit sexual intercourse if his wife ‘feels in the mood’! What a fate! That was what it meant to worship the money-god! To settle down, to Make Good, to sell your soul for a villa and an aspidistra! To turn into the typical little bowler-hatted sneak – Strube’s ‘little man’ – the little docile cit who slips home by the six-fifteen to a supper of cottage pie and stewed tinned pears, half an hour’s listening-in to the B.B.C. The types he saw all round him, especially the older men, made him squirm. He loathes the middle-class and doesn’t want to partake in their way-of-living. He’s prejudiced against the middle-class, represented by their aspidistras. It would mean that the money-god won and he’s pig-headed to the point of stupidity. Strong enough to hate his ‘good job’, quit and take a lesser-paid but nobler job in a bookstore. The pretence was still kept up that Gordon was a struggling poet – the conventional poet-in-garret. He’s rather live off literature but when did poetry ever paid off? He fancies himself as a poet, has published some pieces in several newspaper. But he despises capitalism and doesn’t want anything to do with money making. Gordon used to have a ‘good job’ in an ad agency where he showed some talent as a copywriter.

It’s not easy to be in a relationship when you can’t invite your partner to your home or go anywhere. So, Gordon is sexually frustrated and Orwell has a go at the Nancy Mitfords of the world. The ‘never the time and the place’ motif is not made enough of in novels. It is not easy to make love in a cold climate when you have no money. They are condemned to meet outside and stay outside since Gordon doesn’t have any money to invite Rosemary even to a tea-shop and of course, he won’t let her pay for them. Neither of them can invite someone of the other sex in their room. Gordon has a girlfriend, Rosemary, who also lives in a boarding house.

For example, his good friend Ravelston is rich and he’d rather not go to the pub than let Ravelston pay for a pint. He’s very proud and doesn’t accept any help from his friends. He earns enough to support himself but has no money left after he pays for his essentials. He’s almost thirty, works at a bookshop for two pounds a week and has declared war to the money-god. Gordon Comstock lives in a boarding house in London. Keep the Aspidistra Flying by George Orwell is my second read for the #1936Club co-hosted by Karen at Kaggsy’s Bookish Ramblings and Simon at Stuck in a Book.

Keep the flying orwell