“Exceptional Promise”
Orwell writes, "Mice, by Gordon Comstock; a sneaky little foolscap octavo, price three and sixpence but now reduced to a bob. Of the thirteen B.F.s who had reviewed it ( and The Times Lit. Supp. had declared that it showed 'exceptional promise')…And in the two years he had been at McKechnie's bookshop, not a single customer, not a single one had ever taken Mice out of its shelf." Reviews concerning Comstock's book are ironic because it does not translate to sales. If the book were absolutely promising, customers who have embraced it. The divergence between the reviews and reality surmises that reviews are not utterly objective. Furthermore, impressive reviews are not a guarantee fort massive sales.
“He hated the whole lot of them”
Orwell explains, "He hated the whole lot of them (books), old and new, highbrow and lowbrow, snooty and chirpy. The mere sight of them brought home to him his own sterility." Comstock's hatred for the books is ironic considering he has published a book. Furthermore, he works in a library where the books are his constant companions ;the ironic hatred is attributed to his inability to breakthrough. The sight of the books reminds him his failure which results him projecting his hatred on them.
The Irony of a Writer
Orwell states, "For here was he (Comstock), supposedly a 'writer', and he couldn't even 'write'! It wasn't merely a question of not getting published; it was that he produced nothing, or next to nothing." Being a writer and being unable to write is ironic. The irony surmises that writing does not come effortlessly or naturally. For one to be an accomplished writer, he/ she must have creative ideas to be put in the writing. Comstock is struggling with writing. Perhaps his intrinsic drive is shallow to elicit creative ideas.
Dangerous carelessness
Gordon “moved on through the open doorway” into “the front part of the shop.” In doing so, the man “smoothed his hair,” it was “an habitual movement.” “After all,” he thought, “there might be girls outside the glass door.” The truth was that Gordon himself was “not impressive to look at.” He was “just five feet seven inches high,” and “because his hair was usually too long he gave the impression that his head was too big for his body.” Gordon was “never quite unconscious of his small stature.” “When that anyone was looking at him,” he carried himself very upright, with “a you-be-damned air.” The irony is that Gordon is more concerned about his looks than selling books. Then he complains that he doesn’t have enough money, not to mention that a you-be-damned air Gordon emits also doesn’t predispose customers to buying.
Struggling
Gordon considered himself a poet, he even had a book published to prove it. A poet was always a poet, thus, even on that gloomy day, he was trying to write a masterpiece that would make him famous. The problem was that he couldn’t rhyme the word “bare.” It was “a sod to find rhymes for” since Chaucer. Gordon “turned money in his pocket,” just “two pence halfpenny and a Joey.” His mind was “sticky with boredom,” he couldn’t cope with “rhymes and adjectives.” “You can’t, with only two pence halfpenny in your pocket,” he thought! The irony was that lack of money had nothing to do with his terrible lack of inspiration. He simply didn’t try hard enough.
Miserable
Gordon “jingled the coins in his pocket.” He was nearly thirty and “had accomplished nothing.” Gordon had only his “miserable book of poems that had fallen flatter than any pancake.” “Ever since, for two whole years,” he had been struggling “in the labyrinth of a dreadful book that never got any further.” Gordon blamed “the lack of money, simply the lack of money, that robbed him of power to write.” He clung to that idea as to “an article of faith.” It was all about money! “Invention, energy, wit,” they had all got to be “paid for in hard cash.” The irony was that his inability to write comes from his inexperience. Gordon doesn’t know life.
