He looked at me with a brilliant flash of recognition, slapped his forehead gleefully, and said, 'You mean the prophet!'Ī year before George Orwell died in 1950, his typewriter was confiscated. 'George Orwell,' I repeated - 'the author of Nineteen Eighty-Four.' The old man's eyes suddenly lit up. I wondered if he was losing his memory but, after several failed attempts, I made one final stab. But he was elderly cataracts had turned his eyes an oystery blue, and his hands trembled as he readjusted his sarong.
The man was a well-known scholar in Burma, and I knew he was familiar with Orwell. I could hear mosquitoes whining impatiently around my head, and I was about to give up.
We were sitting in the baking-hot front room of his house in a sleepy port town in Lower Burma. 'G-e-o-r-g-e O-r-w-e-l-l.' But the old Burmese man just kept shaking his head.
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