Burning Down George Orwell's House, by Andrew Ervin
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Burning Down George Orwell's House, by Andrew Ervin
PDF Ebook Online Burning Down George Orwell's House, by Andrew Ervin
A darkly comic debut novel about advertising, truth, single malt, Scottish hospitality—or lack thereof—and George Orwell's Nineteen Eighty-Four. Ray Welter, who was until recently a highflying advertising executive in Chicago, has left the world of newspeak behind. He decamps to the isolated Scottish Isle of Jura in order to spend a few months in the cottage where George Orwell wrote most of his seminal novel, Nineteen Eighty-Four. Ray is miserable, and quite prepared to make his troubles go away with the help of copious quantities of excellent scotch.
But a few of the local islanders take a decidedly shallow view of a foreigner coming to visit in order to sort himself out, and Ray quickly finds himself having to deal with not only his own issues but also a community whose eccentricities are at times amusing and at others downright dangerous. Also, the locals believe—or claim to believe—that there’s a werewolf about, and against his better judgment, Ray’s misadventures build to the night of a traditional, boozy werewolf hunt on the Isle of Jura on the summer solstice.
Burning Down George Orwell's House, by Andrew Ervin - Amazon Sales Rank: #586419 in Books
- Published on: 2015-05-05
- Released on: 2015-05-05
- Original language: English
- Number of items: 1
- Dimensions: 8.70" h x .96" w x 5.89" l, .0 pounds
- Binding: Hardcover
- 288 pages
Burning Down George Orwell's House, by Andrew Ervin Review
Praise for Burning Down George Orwell's House
“Burning Down George Orwell’s House is really most enjoyable, a witty, original turn on the life and memory of the Sage of Jura, taking place on the island where he wrote Nineteen Eighty-Four. Eric Blair serves as the McGuffin in this story, which is one part black comedy and one part a meditation on modern life. It is well written and truly original.”—Robert Stone, author of Dog Soldiers"As all good comedies do, Ervin's novel contains a sober question at its core—in this case, whether the idea of 'escape' itself is just another manipulation sold to us 'proles' by the very same wired world that engulfs and exhausts us. Take a wild guess what George Orwell would say."—Maureen Corrigan, NPR's Fresh Air"Burning Down George Orwell’s House is a sweet book full of delights. Since many of its best passages are rhapsodies on single malt whiskies, one is tempted to call it a wee bonny dram of a tale." —The New York Times Book Review "A whisky-soaked hoot worth hollering about."—The Austin Chronicle
"Big Brother might not be watching [Ray Welter] but the island’s eccentric locals sure are and also, possibly, a werewolf. High comedy ensues as Welter tries to find himself, Orwell and the savage beast."—New York Post"A glorious debut." —The Philadelphia Inquirer"Wry and engaging . . . Nineteen Eighty-Four casts a long shadow over countless books—but not this one . . . Ervin has achieved something uniquely refreshing: a book that shows the taste and restraint to pay knowing, affectionate and humorous tribute to George Orwell without trying to prove him right—or to create some redundant simulacrum of his work."—Paste Magazine"A breezy bit of fun for anyone who dreams of Scotland, enjoys a wee dram of scotch and wonders what it might be like to leave modern life behind—at least for a few hours." —The Cleveland Plain Dealer
"Follows in the tradition of classic comedies where a supposedly cosmopolitan outsider tests his welcome in an insular old-world village. Both come in for some good-natured satire." —Newsday"Besides the sheer entertainment that Burning Down George Orwell's House provides, its value comes in its power to make readers stop and take a close look at their own priorities."—Bookreporter.com"Raises genuine questions about ambition, change, and freedom. The novel never offers Ray or the reader simplistic answers to life’s questions, and it tempers Ray’s misery with comic moments. By the end, although Ray finds it impossible to be truly off the grid, he does find his way back to himself. Readers will enjoy going with him on that journey." —Rain Taxi "You will get thirsty, and if you can muster up a fire in a fireplace, you'll be set."—Black Sheep Dances"Burning Down will appeal to those who have wondered what ditching our smart phones and laptops would do to make our lives less complicated. What geographically remote island could we retreat to for some peace of mind and, obviously, some world-class scotch?"—The Santa Fe Writer's Project Quarterly"A dramatic, thoughtful, and at times comic revisiting of (and attempt to escape from) Orwell's world."—Kirkus Reviews "Captures the stark and chill atmosphere of the small island, on which strangers are unwelcome and apparently very good whiskey is consumed in copious quantities."—Booklist"Ervin writes with skill and a penchant for the absurd . . . Very funny."—Library Journal"Ervin excels at atmosphere and fish-out-of-water interactions."—Publishers Weekly"Who among us hasn’t felt the urge to flee the giant mess we’ve made of our life and just disappear off the grid, somewhere quiet where we can lick our wounds and regroup? In this hilarious black comedy, Ray Welter does just that, escaping a failed marriage and a soul-crushing career, and retreating to the remote island in the Scottish Hebrides where George Orwell wrote 1984." —LitHub“Burning Down George Orwell’s House is fiction as high-wire act, and Ray Welter is a nowhere man for the ages, going down and out in the shadow of the man himself. Ervin tosses up hilarity and horror, musicality and menace, with page after page of firecracker prose.”—Marlon James, author of A Brief History of Seven Killings
“Burning Down George Orwell’s House is a wickedly funny novel soaked in wit and whisky as well as a poetic revelation on consumer living. Ervin ingeniously draws you into the disturbing world of Jura and its menacing inhabitants. I loved it.”—Lisa O’Donnell, author of The Death of Bees
“Ray Welter—corrupted, debauched, cuckolded, fighting all the way down—is a brilliant creation, and Andrew Ervin’s Burning Down George Orwell’s House is a work of laudable mischief.”—Owen King, author of Double Feature
“Beyond being a vastly entertaining novel, cunningly observed and delicately flavored with the very finest Scotch whisky on the planet, Burning Down George Orwell’s House is a serious meditation on just how Orwellian our world has really become. Let Andrew Ervin help you imagine your way to a world beyond Big Brother.”—Madison Smartt Bell, author of All Souls’ Rising
About the Author
Andrew Ervin grew up in the Philadelphia suburbs and has lived in Budapest, Illinois, and Louisiana. He has a degree in philosophy and religion from Goucher College and completed his MFA in fiction at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign. His writing regularly appears in The New York Times Book Review, USA Today, The Washington Post, The Believer, Salon, and elsewhere. He currently lives in Philadelphia with his wife, flutist Elivi Varga. He is the author of Extraordinary Renditions, a collection of novellas. Burning Down George Orwell’s House is his first novel.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. I.Even standing still, finally, Ray Welter’s body remained in motion and subject to inner tidal forces beyond his control. The rain felt more like the idea of wetness than anything resembling drops and it made its way inside his coat and new boots. Everything ached. He struggled to recall with any certainty what the word dry referred to. The rain fell upward. He wanted to cry. The journey had been a thirty-six-hour nightmare spent suffocating in an airplane seat, riding in a bus on the wrong side of the road, sailing, and hitchhiking—and he still had to wait for what looked like a five-minute ride over to the Isle of Jura. A talkative, red-faced woman had dropped him off at the ferry terminal. “You might as well give me that fancy wristwatch of yours,” she had said. “You certainly won’t be needing it out here.” At least that was what he thought she said. The accent would take some getting used to. “And you just wait till you get ahold of these paps.” Ray could discern two of Jura’s three mountains through the fog and rain and from the eastern side of Islay, the Paps of Jura looked exactly like a woman’s breasts. There was no mistaking it. The entire island resembled a naked girl lying on her back. He stood at the very precipice of the wired world. The air tasted fresher than anything he had ever sucked into his Chicago-polluted lungs. His pores worked to rid themselves of the poisons of his previous life and he shivered from the sweaty underclothes, yet some source of heat rose to his face. Across the sound, a ferryman attended to his duties on the deck of a blue-green boat big enough to tote maybe a dozen cars. Jura was so close. Overheated and shivering at the same time, Ray now understood why that island was among the least populated of Scotland’s Inner Hebrides. No direct, public connection existed from the mainland. He carried with him only an elaborate backpack and a suitcase that contained the sum of his worldly possessions. He wandered along the waterfront and awaited the next-to-last leg of the journey. One of Islay’s six whisky distilleries loomed over the ferry port, but he couldn’t discern the presence inside of bodies or spirits. It looked deserted, without as much as a gift shop where he could buy a carryout bottle. A sip of scotch would have tasted so fucking perfect. Over on the inert boat, the ferryman moved slowly and without demonstrable purpose or motivation, oblivious to the weather. A row of squat houses boasted the greenest lawns on the gods’ green earth. Swing sets and seesaws of molded plastic punctuated the grass with happy colors. All of Scotland was green, even greener than the springtime prairie back home. Back at his former home. Out here, Ray discovered a new shade of green. Not quite celadon or vert or even snotgreen, it was the color to which he would forever compare every other green. He already thought of it as Jura green. The acrid smell of burning peat from the chimneys taunted him with the promise of warmth. The hardened mud substitute they used for heat on the islands gave off a strange scent, almost like wood smoke, but more earthy and bitter. He sat against the empty whisky casks stacked on the stone embankment. The seat of his jeans was already soaked through. He unpeeled the last of his bananas and found it impossible to believe that he had purchased the bunch just that morning. The fluorescence of the supermarket in Oban and the colors of the brightly packaged goods in endless rows glowed in his memory as if from a distant universe. Ray dropped the peel into the outer pocket of his pack and took a long drink of mineral water that tasted like sidewalk chalk. A blue van approached, its windows clouded inside, and pulled to a stop a few yards from where he sat. The driver flashed his high beams and in reply the ferryman brought the motor to life. A sad-looking girl emerged from the van. She opened an umbrella and buried her face in a paperback, the title of which he couldn’t make out. The vehicle reversed course and retreated toward Bowmore. The rear lights glistened red in the wet pavement and only then, and with some regret, did Ray realize how quiet it had been. Other than the wind and rain, he hadn’t heard a sound. No cars, no airplanes, no loud cell phone conversations. It had never before occurred to him that real silence might be possible. He hadn’t even recognized it until it disappeared, the victim of the ferry’s mechanical roar ricocheting between those Paps. They really did look like breasts. His mind wasn’t right. Man-made noise was one of many new absences that he hoped would define his stay out here. There would be no more bullshit, no more alienation from his own thought processes. He was now officially in absentia from his previous life and ready to begin a new one. The freedom was daunting, but he was up to it. He had to be. He stood and the ground rolled beneath him like a choppy, concrete sea. Exhaustion had crept into his thighs and lower back. His throat remained parched from the dry airplane and the miles of hiking. That first whisky was going to taste so goddamn good. The girl hiding inside the hood of her raincoat didn’t hear him approach, so when he asked, “What are you reading?” she flinched and her book landed in a puddle. “Don’t fucking do that,” she said. It was difficult to get a look at her through the layers of rain gear and wool, but she had round cheeks that accentuated her frown. She might have been fifteen or sixteen. “It’s none of your business, is it?” She held the book by the spine and shook the water from its pages, then wiped the cover on her skirt, smearing it with dirt. “I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean to scare you.” “Then perhaps stalking up on people isn’t your best plan of action.” “I said I was sorry. I’ll be happy to buy you a new copy.” “Where do you plan to do that, then?” “I don’t know. How about in Bowmore?” She mocked his American accent: “How about you leave me alone?” “Fine, sure. Sorry.” What a hideous child. The ferry pulled to a stop long enough for Ray to follow her aboard. Up close, the ferryman looked older than time itself. “How was school today?” he yelled over the motor. “Great,” she whined. “I should make you swim home. That’d get you some exercise. You must be our Mr. Welter. Right on time too, I’d say.” He pointed to the back of his wrist, but he wasn’t wearing a watch. The girl looked up from her book—it was Freud on the cover—long enough to flash Ray the evil eye. He gave the ferryman the fare and regretted that he had not brought an obol to pay him with. “Call me Ray,” he said and shook the man’s hand. No cars or other passengers climbed aboard. “The name’s Singer. We get a lot of people out here looking for Orwell. Sounds like you’re serious though.” “I don’t know about that. I hope so.” “I understand you’re staying at the hotel this evening.” “In Craigshouse?” “Craighouse. No s in there. It’s the only hotel we have, so I suppose that would be the one. Let me take care of business here if you’re going to make it in time for supper.” The boat coughed black smoke into the mist. The motors surged and the ferry—powered by some combination of crowbars, buzz saws, and garbage can lids—backed away from Islay. The motion mimicked Ray’s vertiginous balance and the volume of the engines dislodged some bile from the back of his throat. A slave driver down in the galley kept time with a pair of monkey wrenches he banged on a kettledrum full of rusty screws. The vibration found its way to Ray’s backbone. The stink of diesel fuel filled his sinus cavity. He would never be still, or dry, ever again. Only motion existed now. O Argo! O Pequod! O Eilean Dhiura! The boat moved, and Ray was carried by a series of systemic forces: he paced in circles, port to starboard, starboard to port while the boat defied the sound’s pull, itself directed by the moon; gravity held him and the ferry and the captain and the sea fast to the spinning earth, which carried all of them around a sun, the existence of which was now speculative; a rivulet of mineral water curled its way through his digestive tract and into his circulatory and respiratory processes, while the pouring rain sought every millimeter of exposed flesh. Even with the ferry nearing the shore, or the shore nearing the ferry, Ray still felt like he might never make it to Jura. Zeno’s paradox would take over. He would continue to travel half the distance, and then half of that, and half of that, and . . . The closer he got, the more he felt his body shutting down. Famine, dehydration, and fatigue nipped at his heels. Marshmallow-like mucus colonized his chest and bits of it escaped up his throat every time he coughed. The Paps loomed larger. He held on to the railing to maintain what remained of his balance. The motion of the boat felt too familiar now, as did the wind, which reminded him of Chicago. The brat schoolgirl kept her eyes buried in her wet copy of Civilization and Its Discontents. The ferry stopped and there became here. He had made it. Singer lowered the plank and Ray stepped foot upon the Isle of Jura. “I’ll be seeing you at the hotel just as soon as I’ve tightened her down here,” the ferryman said. “You’ve come at a good time.” “Great,” Ray told him. “Great,” the girl said, making fun of his American accent again. “Don’t mind her,” Singer said. “She’s not a bad kid once you get to know her. Too smart for her own good, that’s her problem.” The air was rich and clean, but he still had to hoof it several miles. He had received the directions via e-mail: from the ferry port, Jura’s only paved road curled around the southern butt of the island and then ran two-thirds of the way up the eastern coastline to Craighouse, which sat in the mouth of a bay and faced the Scottish mainland. The caretaker of the hotel there, Mrs. Campbell, was expecting him. He had a reservation for one night. After a good night of sleep he would pick some supplies up at the Jura Stores, which was owned by the same couple who would serve as his landlords for the next six months. Then he would hitchhike twenty-five miles up toward the northern tip to Barnhill, the estate where George Orwell wrote Nineteen Eighty-Four. That was where Ray would begin his new life. It was still difficult to believe.
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Most helpful customer reviews
11 of 14 people found the following review helpful. so good, read it now, buy some scotch first! By Amazon Customer There's no way this review by a non-writer is going to do this book justice. But it's worth taking a shot. It's a good blend of literary history (Eric blair), metaphysical speculation (werewolf), character development (Welter), and drinking scotch ( everyone). Doesn't just skewer the trade-offs inherent in the internet age but tries to see beyond them. Also, it's really funny. Also, the characters are frustrating because they do what people would do, not what the easy narrative suggests. Also, it's beautiful.
11 of 14 people found the following review helpful. Change is hard, so pour me another dram.... By Meg Sumner I think everyone has held the “cottage by the sea” dream aloft in our imagination, thinking at times it to be the ideal solution for when life gets messy or our decisions turn out to be disasters. I can see my cottage so clearly that I wonder where I saw it; what gave me the definite image of the white shutters on the gray siding, the crisp brick chimney placed just so? Climbing roses tumbling down around a small fence, with the ubiquitous Adirondack chair (painted bright turquoise) facing a lovely calm bay? Was it described in a book? A dubious Hallmark movie?Or, maybe… was it in an advertisement? Someone selling paint? Easy-Gro plants? Detergent? You may find yourself questioning the origin of your dream cottage (admit it…you have one, if not by the sea, by a lake) when you get submerged in Andrew Ervin’s new novel, Burning Down George Orwell’s House.Sure, we know that such a fantasy, were it to happen, would be full of inconveniences. It would be completely worth going without electricity, internet, and Amazon just to be able to think and get away from other humans. And this is the plan that Ray Welter makes a reality when he heads to the island of Jura, just off the Scottish mainland, fleeing both a failing marriage and a dubious job decision as an advertising executive at the cutting-edge firm, Logos. Cutting off all ties to his life, he packs a few books and sets out to find the time and space to think.“Ray wanted to know again, to be able to delineate right and wrong in an un-deconstructed world of certainty. He wanted to feel the security of binary opposition. Good and bad.”To be sure, Ray’s cottage is far different from ours in its providence: it was once the home of George Orwell, writer of one of the most readable books on the required reading list of any high school. I studied 1984 in 1984, and everyone in our age bracket immediately understood the significance of Doublespeak and Big Brother. It seemed extreme, but possible. In the thirty years since, it isn’t inevitable, it simply is.Getting a cold and bumpy start, Welter finds that many inconveniences are eased by drinking whisky and napping. Lots of whisky. In fact, it appears to be the only thing that keeps Jura functional, and the good stuff is distilled right on the island. The rain is endless, and the few residents he meets are an odd and cantankerous bunch that makes me fear Gerard Butler may be as bizarre and scary as them. That thought alone would garner a dram of whisky.While intending to study Orwell and get a sense of what inspired his most original and frightening vision of the future, Welter offends nearly everyone in his journey, until he’s finally alone at the cottage (more like a palace but I’ve committed to a cottage). And then, with the dream a complete reality, and the nasty world behind him, and the cottage fire going, Welter is surprised to find himself a bit lost, maybe even bored. Having time to think may not be in his best interests:“As long as Ray could remember, since he was a little kid running amok in the endless rows of corn, his mind had contained partitioned rooms he knew not to enter; in them were countless self-perceptions better left un-thought about and which generated moods that later in life –particularly after his career at Logos took off – his personal safety required him to avoid. But left by himself for days on end, half-dozing next to a dying fire, with the large amounts of whisky unable to fight off the constant din of the rain, he couldn’t help himself from picking open those locks and peering inside.”Strange parallels of his life twist into irony that is Orwellian. The first week there, he feels watched, as if every movement is being observed by a nefarious unknown. And while he wanted to observe that gorgeous and refreshing seascape, the rain blots out any vision: he’s blind to what he’s looking for. Death pays a visit too, as he’s being gifted with disemboweled animals on his porch, attributed quite simply to one of the islander’s being a werewolf.As werewolves go, this one is pretty wise. He tells Welter, “remember that the difference between myth and reality isn’t quite as distinct here on Jura as you might believe.” This dichotomy plays out in both the scenery and his interactions with the island’s residents in scenes that are often tense but sometimes very funny.Welter’s study of Orwell is distracted by an abused young woman (of the jailbait variety) and her villainous father who hates all intruders into what he considers the old and traditional life Jura holds (tourists be damned). Change is feared by all on the island, but Welter comes with the mindset of an advertiser, where change is encouraged and necessary to remain profitable, and thus to exist. Strange neighbors, endless sheep, torture by bagpipe, and the arduous terrain keeps him from ever finding a comfort zone, and this is probably the point that Ervin is directing us towards.This is most telling in a particularly revelatory tour of the Jura distillery, where Welter learns that the process of aging whiskey to perfection has a distinct subtext of living life to the full, in the present:“The size of the cask and the location, that’s how every malt gets its distinct flavors. And from the geographical location of the distillery and the tiniest variations of coastline and altitude too.”Whiskey as metaphor. Of course. The collision between stasis and change form a battle that goes beyond the novel. It reels in Welter’s reflections from his time on Jura to his pre-Jura meltdown, even to the times of his childhood where Ervin sneaks in some tiny details that are revealing later. It extends across economic, geographic, and family connections and surprises with an unexpected lightness rather than despondence.Special thanks to Soho Books for the Review Copy.
0 of 0 people found the following review helpful. thoroughly enjoyable read By Susan from Baltimore I read a LOT, and much of my reading is simply a way to pass the time than anything engrossing. This novel is an exception - I was delighted with the writing and the story. Mr Ervin's prose is inventive and he draws vivid pictures of struggles both internal and external. The characters are caricatures and fully realized all at once. He doesn't shy away from that which makes people ugly, yet the very grittiness of them doesn't make them unattractive (with a few marked and clear exceptions) The novel is deep at times and includes passages that are truly laugh-out-loud funny (much like life). I will assuredly be looking for future works from this author after exploring his previous writing.
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