These are not George Orwell’s roses. They’re mine, cut in early June, some of the petals shaken off to make rose petal jelly (delicious on warm croissants). Most of the roses I’ve planted over the past 40 years are old-fashioned cultivars, the kind that Orwell might have planted in his garden in Wallington, in Herfordshire, in 1936. I know from having just begun Rebecca Solnit’s Orwell’s Roses that one rose he planted was “Albertine”, a salmon-pink rambler that I don’t have but now of course I’m going to look for.
Does this happen to you, that you settle into your bed (or wherever you like best to read) with a new book, and you are instantly taken wholly into its text, its premise, its intelligent creative world? Last night I’d just arranged three pillows behind me, the sheets were freshly laundered, the butter-yellow cotton ones I love, the curtains were drawn against the dark, and I opened the book.
In the spring of 1936, a writer planted roses. I had known this for more than three decades and never thought enough about what that meant until a November day a few years ago, when I was under doctor’s orders to recuperate at home in San Francisco and was also on a train from London to Cambridge to talk with another writer about a book I’d written.
I don’t know about you but this confiding voice, the roses, and the disconnection between what was expected of her and what she was doing—I knew it was the book for me at this point in the year, in history, in, oh, a scattering of other moments. I haven’t read all Rebecca Solnit’s books but I have read enough of them to count her among my very cherished writers.
She is on her way to Wallington, where Orwell lived for 4 years. She has been talking about trees and plants with her friend, documentary film-maker Sam Green, and mentioned an essay by Orwell, “A Good Word for the Vicar of Bray”, in which the writer mentions the trees and roses he’d planted ten years earlier, in Wallington, and how he’d visited them and discovered that most of them had thrived in his absence. He wrote,
The planting of a tree, especially one of the long-living hardwood trees, is a gift which you can make to posterity at almost no cost and with almost no trouble, and if the tree takes root it will far outlive the visible effect of any of your other actions, good or evil.
I read 42 pages last night and I began to do something I haven’t done in years: I made marks in the margins with a pencil, little lines and a few words here and there, so I can easily find the passages that stopped me, made me think, made me lean back on my pillows, often with tears in my eyes, grateful for this book, at this time, as an excavator clears an area across the highway from us for a huge telecommunications tower (we’ve tried to keep this from happening but it seems to be going ahead, with a security guard patrolling because he’s been told to expect trouble, which I guess is us), as the news cycle is filled with plague and violence and ugly rhetoric. Orwell was certainly a man of action. One remembers his books about socialism, poverty, capitalism…I read Down and Out in Paris and London in 1976 when I found a copy on the shelves of the institution where I worked in Wimbledon and I remember walking by the homeless sleeping rough on the Embankment on the evenings I went into the City for a poetry reading or concert, thinking that not much had changed. Rebecca Solnit writes that it was Orwell’s essays that were “a foundational influence on my own meander towards becoming an essayist” and in a way I can relate to that. I remember reading “Why I Write”, “Shooting an Elephant”, and “Some Thoughts on the Common Toad” when I was perhaps 18, drawn to the plain language and the sense that we shared some common beliefs about nature and humanity and what we do as writers.
I am not able, and do not want, completely to abandon the world view that I acquired in childhood. So long as I remain alive and well, I shall continue to feel strongly about prose style, to love the surface of the earth, and to take pleasure in solid objects and scraps of useless information. (from “Why I Write)
It’s just after 10 a.m. as I write this and already I am looking forward to bedtime, arranging the pillows, and sinking into this extraordinary book. Solnit’s prose, so bright and vivid and joyous, and her meander into Orwell’s world, rich with roses, with good advice we could all do well to heed:
I am not suggesting that one can discharge all one’s obligations towards society by means of a private re-afforestation scheme. Still, it might not be a bad idea, every time you commit an antisocial act, to make note of it in your diary, and then, at the appropriate season, push an acorn into the ground.
While the excavator down below echoes with the acoustics of destruction (oiled by capitalist greed, small and large), while the trucks maintain their barricades in Ottawa and Alberta, I’m making a note, for all of us, with my little hoard of acorns.
11 thoughts on ““In the spring of 1936, a writer planted roses.” (Rebecca Solnit)”
I’m sick to think that your tower is being built after all, Theresa. I’m so sorry about it and all the other bullying going on. However what I really wanted to write to you about was “Orwell’s Roses” which was on my Christmas list and is now patiently waiting beside my chair for non-fiction hour (which precedes supper here). It’ll have to wait a bit because yesterday I began Robert Macfarlane’s “The Wild Places” which I have from the library. Before I opened it I glanced at the back and there was a quote from . . Rebecca Solnit who, as always, expresses herself so succinctly and clearly I almost wanted to turn to her book instead. Discipline prevailed though and now I have two treasures to explore. And as for acorns, I am going to write that reminder in my journal. Thank you as always for the connections and insight.
There was a period before and after Christmas when it looked like a legal issue would prevent the tower, Susan. The whole thing smells bad and there are grifters involved (of course). But yes, somehow this book is exactly what I needed! It’s just wonderful. Looking into sources for “Albertine”!
Thank you for this, for (as you always seem to do), giving us something of beauty to hold on to, to ‘push into the ground’, while all around us ugly things are happening.
Pearl, I just went out to check my little oak seedlings, still in pots, ready to plant out when it gets warmer. And this spring I’ll push more acorns into the ground and hope. Because what else is there that is so lasting?
I’m so often embraced by your writing and the meandering connections you make. Here’s to more acorns to slip into the earth.
I have a few just waiting for the right moment, Diane!
Gorgeous blooms (and the roses are lovely too)! 🙂
To remember the summer roses and to know this book is waiting for me at the end of the day: heaven.
What I love about Orwell via this book was the sense that he was able to critique a point of view without becoming its mirror image, which so many political people seem incapable of doing. I am also sorry about the tower—but I think it will all turn out okay. xo
Very true, Kerry. He’s kind of grumpy and not self-congratulatory and flawed — and very inspiring too. And I love how Solnit’s mind works.
[…] Rebecca Solnit’s new book, Orwell’s Roses, last night. I began it on February 2 (see this entry) just as some of my family were arriving for a winter visit and then I put it aside until […]