I only rarely read fiction and cannot be arsed to waste my time on what passes for literature these days. The endless, dreary, self-obsessed witterings that win the Booker or Orange prizes and plaudits from the critics nowadays seem to me very poor compensation for the effort of reading them. Perhaps such inconsequential and unskilled dross satisfies the needs of a self-congratulatory cabal of urban chatterers to feel avant-garde, but I feel life is too short for such a rarefied pursuit. I much prefer the rewards of non-fiction, or, at worst, what is often known as science fiction. Besides, the main criterion for adulation appears to be that the author is a black woman who apes the attitudes and mores of certain Notting Hill dinner parties attended by BBC executives.
But I am very much enjoying renewing my acquaintance with Graham Greene. There is a joy in seeing a master craftsman’s work that must echo whatever pleasure sports fans get from watching a tour de force performance on the field. There is in his work a deceptive simplicity and lack of artfulness that is enormously satisfying. It is not until you have been drawn in and thoroughly immersed in his storytelling that you realise just how cleverly, and self-effacingly he has achieved the effect. His use of the English language retains both a formal elegance and an evocative imagination that seems anathema to the shallow nouveau demi-monde.
Greene wrote many works on a variety of subjects (unlike the critics’ favourites of today) that you might have heard of. The Third Man, The Quiet American, The Power And The Glory, Brighton Rock, A Burnt-Out Case, The End Of The Affair, Our Man In Havana, are all his. He may be unpopular now, being an educated white man from an intellectual class, but I would bet his reputation will outlive and be celebrated long after the trendy darlings of the chattering classes have been forgotten. It is always the way that the reputation of great writers suffers after their deaths only to be revived a few decades later, while the trendy popular writers fade forever before they die. It is as if time and distance are needed for great talent to shine through. Oh, and his Travels With My Aunt remains one of the funniest and most liberating novels I have ever read, and, without giving the game away, heart-renderingly tragic.
Seriously, do yourself a big favour and pick up a few of his novels from the library. Alas, you probably won’t find many in the trendy bookshops of the suburban high street. If you have any taste and discrimination at all you won’t regret it.