Orwell at War's Beginning

In 1940, George Orwell is no longer able to focus his diary on country things, planting and eggs and watching the seasons. War is upon him. A couple of days ago he went to search for his wife's brother amongst the Dunkirk evacuees, and painted a vivid picture of "Belgian or French refugees", most of whom "seemed only bewildered by the crowds and the general strangeness". There was a quick glimpse of a "naval officer in a uniform that had been in the water and parts of a soldier’s equipment" who "hurried towards a bus, smiling and touching his tin hat to either side as the women shouted at him and clapped him on the shoulder" and a memory of "1914, when all soldiers seemed like giants to me"...

Today's entry has this remarkably timeless observation:

From a letter from Lady Oxford to the Daily Telegraph, on the subject of war economies:

“Since most London houses are deserted there is little entertaining…in any case, most people have to part with their cooks and live in hotels.”

Apparently, nothing will ever teach these people that the other 99% of the population exist.