Once in a great while, one encounters a writer who seems not only to have a finger on the pulse of his or her own era, but also to have something authoritative to say to posterity. In the English language, Dr. Johnson is still probably the paradigmatic example of such a writer. But since his death in 1950 at the age of forty-six, there can be little doubt that it is George Orwell who occupies this place in the collective imagination of the culture.

Whether Orwell himself would have relished being treated simultaneously as seer, secular saint, yardstick of conscience, and arbiter of political good sense is surely doubtful. He was not without vanity, but he was both too much of a natural contrarian and too skeptical of human motives to have taken such adulation at face value. Like Simone Weil, whom he would have loathed (a dislike Weil would have reciprocated with interest), Orwell had an almost pitch-perfect talent for making things as difficult for himself as possible, and a penitent’s tropism toward physical discomfort and privation even when there were easier and more comfortable roads open to him. Weil essentially ensured her own death when, already gravely ill and a refugee in London, she insisted on subsisting on the official ration for people in Nazi-occupied France even though virtually everybody in France at the time had extra sources of food. Orwell, his tuberculosis worsening, left London, where he might have been properly looked after, for the cold isolation of the Isle of Jura off western Scotland, where he tried to write, make furniture, and raise pigs as his health went from bad to worse.

Both Weil and Orwell were “judgers.” Their standards were high and their opinions severe. Few people measured up, perhaps least of all those with whom they shared important political and cultural affinities. Weil was at war with her own Jewish background and with her Catholic faith. Orwell, as the political historian George Lichtheim, who knew him, once told me, seemed puzzled at how he had wound up with so many Jews and homosexuals for comrades, and in many ways he was as sentimental about England—or at least a certain fantasy image of England—as any of his more conventional classmates at Eton or colleagues in the Burmese colonial police.

Would the writer whose stock-in-trade was the telling of unpleasant truths—truths to power on behalf of the powerless, but also truths about power to people whom Orwell felt criticized it without understanding it—have really reveled in what has now been almost sixty years of encomia? He was not without ego, so perhaps he would have succumbed—at least for a time. But I find it hard to believe that, in the end, Orwell’s natural cussedness would not eventually have reasserted itself and that he would not have wondered what all the fuss about himself was finally all about.

David Rieff is a contributing writer at The New York Times Magazine. He is the author of seven books, most recently At the Point of a Gun: Democratic Dreams and Armed Intervention.