Flowery Orwell. I was hoping for more spit-fire venomous anti-colonialism, but I suppose his constant harping on the leathery yellow of the Europeans was seditious enough.


NICE PARTS:

"In the end the secrecy of your revolt poisons you like a secret disease. Your whole life is a life of lies. Year after year you sit in Kipling-haunted little clubs, whiskey to the right of you, Pink'un to the left of you, listening and eagerly agreeing while Colonel Bodger develops his theory that these bloody Nationalists should be boiling in oil. .... The time comes when you burn with hatred for your own countrymen, when you long for a native rising to drown their empire in blood. And in this there is nothing honourable, hardly even any sincerity. For, au fond, what do you care if the Indian Empire is a despotism, if Indians are bullied and exploited? You only care because the right of free speech is denied you..."

"Cur, spineless cur," Flory was thinking to himself; without heat however, for he was too accustomed to the thought. "Sneaking, idling, boozing, fornicating, soul-examining, self-pitying cur."