The family of Napoleon respond to Animal Farm
Dear Sir,
It has recently come to my attention that one of the authors you represent, George Orwell, wrote a book “Animal Farm” clearly based on the life of my beloved grandfather, Pop Pops Napoleon.
You’ll perhaps understand why, when I first heard about the publication, I assumed a book about the first farm in the world run by a pig, an English one at that, would be a respectful biography celebrating his remarkable life.
Instead, I discover, that rather than honouring his historic undertaking; removing a dangerously incompetent owner and establishing a very successful medium sized farm (all AS A PIG!) my grandfather is somehow the villain of Mr. Orwell’s tale?
Please appreciate our astonishment that his incredible achievement is apparently, we are led to believe, an analogy for the Russian Revolution.
My grandfather, entirely self-taught, with absolutely no agricultural training or background, successfully turned a failing holding with quite frankly dreadful drainage into a thriving family business that survives to this day. Apparently, this is comparable, in Mr. Orwell’s eyes, to Stalin. The Soviet tyrant personally responsible for the deaths of millions. How very British. We do after all like nothing more than knocking our own.
Does Mr. Orwell have any idea of the type of prejudices and barriers my grandfather faced as a pig running a farm? Sometimes literal barriers too, not just metaphorical ones. Or is my proudly gammon faced Pop Pops not the convenient minority for his woke worldview?
Was he perfect? Of course not, like most great trail blazers, he was a complicated pig. Did he get things right every time? He’d be the first to disagree. I only knew him in his later years and even then, he seemed very much haunted by the mistakes of his youth. Could he have taken better care of older farmworkers? He’d be the first to admit that maybe he did let a few details slip. Although it’s important to remember we are talking about a very different time, before work life balance, sick leave and state pensions became standard practice. He made mistakes. As Jeremy Clarkson’s excellent recent series can attest, no one gets farming right first time.
But some of the criticism levelled at him defies belief. He apparently should be ashamed of his dictum “four legs good, two legs better.” Does Mr. Orwell have any knowledge of farm machinery? Has he witnessed a sheep trying to drive a medium-sized tractor? Should my grandfather be shamed for acknowledging the basics of physics that, purely from a health and safety point of view, on a working farm, two legs are more practical that four? Or do the advantages of a low centre of gravity trigger Mr. Orwell’s metropolitan ideals?
And as for the apparent great crime of wearing clothes? Has he spent any time around heavy machinery? Or Wiltshire in winter? Maybe in certain areas of North London it's acceptable to wander around with your tail out but especially for pigs or my grandfather’s generation, being smartly dressed was a matter of personal pride. Right up to the end, he would regularly pop out for a newspaper, in a three-piece suit. If Mr. Orwell expects an apology for this charming devotion to formal dress, I hope he’s fond of waiting!
On a personal note, the inclusion of Snowball was for my family the lowest blow. It is true that he and my grandfather were once great friends and a certain froideur did sadly develop between these once close pals before Snowball abruptly left the farm. What happened between my grandmother and Snowball is an extremely sensitive issue and for Mr. Orwell to use sordid rumours about people no longer around to defend themselves to sell a few copies of his muckraking dross, is a matter I will leave to his own conscience.
My grandfather would be the last pig to consider himself a hero. He saw a struggling business and through sheer grit, hard work and determination, created a legacy still thriving to this day. All whilst being a pig. That is what makes Mr. Orwell’s snide comparisons with Soviet Russia’s genocidal purges all the more baffling and cruel. The only thing “red” about my dearest grandpapa were his cheeks after one too many whiskies. In fact, I remember one of his favourite sayings he’d use to begin every family gathering. After a toast to the Queen, he’d raise his glass and shout “remember all of us are equal” and with a charming twinkle in his eye add “but some are more equal than others”. Now what could be more English than that?
Yours etc.
PS - please find below a picture of my beloved grandpapa on his last birthday. He kept his dignity til the end.
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