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Orwell’s eggs—and the joy of his diaries

By Tom Chatfield  

I’ve been meaning to write for some time now about the delight that is the Orwell diaries—a recent example of that most welcome of online phenomena, the re-publishing of classic diaries as blogs.

George—or Eric, as I suppose we should call him—is currently wintering in French Morocco. It’s December 1938, he’s 36 years old, and he’s there to recover from a severe bout of tuberculosis; it probably hasn’t helped his health, too, that a sniper’s bullet went through his neck in…

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