When I talk books Orwell often comes up. I have an (odd/varied) Anglophobe bent (Woodhouse, O’Brien, Rushdie, Naipal, Hardy) which is partly due to the fact that the language is just different enough for me to have to engage the forebrain.
Hitchens was the owner (according to him) of “everything Orwell had ever written from 1984 to his laundry receipts.”
Orwell’s prose draws you in because he lays a subject bare in the simplest language. You look at the surface and it seems plain, but once you digest you realize it’s as right as it could be.
Heffer’s conclusion on Orwell’s letters: “Ah, well: it is reassuring that the gods will still give us faults to make us men.”