“The mass of the rich and the poor are differentiated by their incomes and nothing else, and the average millionaire is only the average dishwasher dressed in a new suit.” — George Orwell, Down and Out in Paris and London

I am a staunch George Orwell fan. I think he’s absolutely amazing and if you’re limiting yourself to his classic novels (Animal Farm, 1984), you are doing yourself a disservice. His essays and non-fiction books are amongst his best works.

Down and Out is Orwell’s account of the time he spent almost penniless in the Paris slums, and then in London, sleeping in workhouses and cheap hostels when he had a little more money. He talks of the people he met, the places they frequented, his opinion on the jobs he worked and those of his fellow down-and-outs, who are often homeless. I picked up the book knowing I’d enjoy it — it is Orwell, and I’d be hard-pressed to not love him — but the book gave me more than that.

It makes you think. And I mean really think, not sort of graze your mind on the surface of a problem. I have, quite thankfully, never been in the position of wanting. My parents have provided the comforts we need or want and I have been blessed. My father, however, came from no money. He’s a self-made man. He will often talk about the struggles he faced trying to juggle making money with attending university. He would tell us how he’d have to wear two pairs of socks with a plastic bag in between them so that the snow wouldn’t sink right through. He’d tell us of having to go to work at 5am to scrub dishes at a restaurant to make money, and then begin attending his lectures at noon straight to midnight. So hearing about Orwell stuck in a hotel, washing dishes, is not a difficult leap for me to make. I have been raised to respect money, to respect those trying to make their way of life, and to try and respect every job that someone does.

This is going to sound immodest, but I want to say it because it has a lot to do with this book. I never thought I was unaware of poverty. I may not have experienced it, but I believed we did our part, in awareness and other matters, and I could not be called naive. I have never thought that anyone was better than any other person based on their income, and all in all I thought my stance on poverty and wealth was a healthy one.

It wasn’t. I was still grossly unaware of what so many people go through. As I sat and read through the experiences of this remarkable man, I thought of how much I didn’t know, how naive I really was, and how I needed to understand much more than I do. Then came the sucker punch — at the end of the book, after everything he has told us, Orwell says, “At present, I do not feel that I have seen more than the fringe of poverty.” And you realise, suddenly, that that’s true — but what does that say of you? If he thought he only knew the fringe, that means I know nothing.