'April, 1947. In a run-down farmhouse on a remote Scottish island, George Orwell begins his last and greatest work: Nineteen Eighty-Four.
'Forty-four years old and suffering from the tuberculosis that within three winters will take his life, Orwell comes to see the book as his legacy – the culmination of a career spent fighting to preserve the freedoms which the wars and upheavals of the twentieth century have threatened. Completing the book is an urgent challenge, a race against death.
'In this illuminating novel, Dennis Glover masterfully explores the creation of Orwell’s classic work, which for millions of readers worldwide defined the twentieth century. Simultaneously a captivating drama, a unique literary excavation and an unflinching portrait of a beloved British writer, The Last Man in Europe will change the way you understand Nineteen Eighty-Four.' (Publication summary)
'Eric Blair died for want of a typist. Self-exiled to a remote Scottish island and hollowed out by tuberculosis, he quailed at the prospect of typing a clean manuscript copy of his just-completed novel. Despite an SOS to his publishers, no typist eventuated. If he were to meet his end-of-1948 deadline, he’d have to do the job himself. And so he did, propped up in bed with the typewriter on a tea tray. But three days after typing “THE END”, Blair suffered his final collapse.' (Introduction)
'The Last Man in Europe, a lean novel of artful mimicry, was the working title of George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four before it was published in 1949. Melbourne writer and political adviser Dennis Glover seems to have absorbed all Orwell was and yearned to be by the time he came to the ordeal of his final, invalid years spent writing that last word on our political future.' (Introduction)
'The Last Man in Europe, a lean novel of artful mimicry, was the working title of George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four before it was published in 1949. Melbourne writer and political adviser Dennis Glover seems to have absorbed all Orwell was and yearned to be by the time he came to the ordeal of his final, invalid years spent writing that last word on our political future.' (Introduction)
'Eric Blair died for want of a typist. Self-exiled to a remote Scottish island and hollowed out by tuberculosis, he quailed at the prospect of typing a clean manuscript copy of his just-completed novel. Despite an SOS to his publishers, no typist eventuated. If he were to meet his end-of-1948 deadline, he’d have to do the job himself. And so he did, propped up in bed with the typewriter on a tea tray. But three days after typing “THE END”, Blair suffered his final collapse.' (Introduction)
