Burmese Days – George Orwell

I never thought I would get to write something like this, but having now read all of Orwell’s novels I can see why so many people think he was a genius. He’s still far from being my favourite writer ever, but 1984, Burmese Days, and Coming Up for Air are three really good novels (although Keep the Aspidistra Flying is remarkably bad, I only moderately liked A Clergyman’s Daughter, and I honestly can’t stand Animal Farm).

Burmese Days reminded me of some of the finest Graham Greene, but also of that wonderful thing that is Burgess’ Malayan Trilogy – it’s a beautiful portrayal of the pettiness of a colonial society that doesn’t really understand the reality of the land it inhabits, of its silly internal fights, and of the way in which locals try to ingratiate themselves with the Europeans.

Flory doesn’t possess the literary weight of Burgess’ Crabbe, but he is still a deeply fascinating character. And sure, the book was written by a person who quite clearly thought that British imperialism was dead by the 1930s (and history ultimately proved he wasn’t far wrong), but that doesn’t mean this book of fiction, if taken with a pinch of salt, isn’t historically accurate.