Do You Want To Know A Secret?

Carol Reed’s cinematic development of “The Basement Room” (i.e. The Fallen Idol) captures well the themes and spirit of Greene’s work. From the opening scene to the final shot, The Fallen Idol leaves the viewer with the same thrill and awe that comes from reading the pages of Greene’s works. Carol Reed uses the cinematic quality of Greene’s writing simply but effectively. I could almost see Greene writing out the description of a scene or a shot as the film went on. Philippe, the protagonist and diplomat’s son, adores and idolizes (hence the title) his butler Baines. Reed illustrates a realistic relationship between the two figures. Baines makes up stories to entertain the young boy, unintentionally impressing him. However, the Greene-esque theme of loyalty and betrayal dominates the film when Baines becomes implicated in the death of his unloving (and unloved) wife. The reality and gravity of the situation drags the innocent Philippe down into the world of lies and truth, where he must decide whether or not to defend his idol despite his own suspicions.

Two polar, contrasting scenes highlight the struggle in which “Phile” fights. Thinking the fall of Mrs. Baines was murder, Phile runs away, but the police bring him back home. The Janus-faced Baines tries to comfort him in a loving, admirable way; however, he also tells Phile that they “got to be careful what [they] say to policemen.” Baines provides a false and dangerous importance to lying. The innocent Phile then sees life as a mission to “think of lies and tell them all the time. And then they won't find out the truth.” His innocence and admiration makes him do what his idol does, even if it is wrong and dishonest. This willingness to lie actually hurts Baines because Phile denies every true detail, even the helpful ones. A child is usually regarded as truthful, and thus the police believe every lie. Before Baines leaves for the police station, he realizes what he has done to Phile. He tries to comfort Phile: “The trouble is we’ve told a lot of lies.” Baines tears down the corrupted values he established. He instills now a respect for the truth in Phile, who now believes “we must never tell any more lies.” The two scenes show a battle being waged in a child’s impressionable mind by a respectable yet despicable man and the destruction it has caused.

Phile is Tired...

The themes of betrayal and loyalty, honesty and dishonesty, innocence and experience, and choice all play significant roles in the movie. Phile’s innocence is ravaged by the adult experience of his idol, Baines. With terrible knowledge and respect for him, Phile must decide not only what is right and what is wrong, but also whether he should do what is right. Even though Phile knows he must now tell the truth, the police and even people he trusts (e.g. Baine’s lover Julie) ignore his desperate attempts to tell the truth. It is a painful to watch Phile battle with right and wrong in the real world. This disregard for what is true, even though it is right, seems to confuse him even more. How will this adult disregard of righteousness and acceptance of dishonesty affect Phile’s moral development?

Graham Greene on Film Titles

Since we will soon be watching some Graham Greene films, here is Greene on the titles of three of his books / films:
http://www.criterion.com/lists/113964-graham-greene-s-titles-on-criterion

A Man: A Writer: Graham Greene

This is not a post about the many powerful themes of Greene's masterpiece, The Power and the Glory: it 's about something that might seem trivial but actually merits a closer look: it's about the colon. In Power and the Glory, Greene greatly favors the colon as his punctuation mark of choice, more so, it seems to me, than in any other work I've encountered. For most of us, the colon is used to introduce an elaboration, a list, an identification. But for Greene, it is a crystallizing mechanism, one that bring the previous clause into sharper focus. With each successive colon, the general becomes specific. For some reason, when reading these sentences, I think of a collapsible telescope. The first sentence is the wide base; with its lens, things are merely fuzzy and still seem distant. Pull out the smaller, obscured inner tubes, and the image is brought into fine detail. Here's an example:

"[The whiskey priest] drained the beer: a long glassy whistle in the darkness: the last drop must have been gone" (41).

Certainly, Greene could just leave us with the factual action of "draining the beer." But "the long glassy whistle in the darkness" now makes the fact a crystalline auditory image, and the adjective "glassy" is such a fine detail that only a powerful "telescope" could pick up on. From this, we conclude, in a darkness we share with the narrator and Coral Fellows, that there is not a drop left in the bottle.

Another example, this one about a dog:

"It wasn't anybody she wanted: she wanted what she was used to: she wanted the old world back."

Notice how the narrator's omniscience becomes more and more precise. Each colon whittles down the dog's desire to its essence. We begin with the negative here: to say that the dog doesn't want the priest leaves much open to what she does want. This gets narrowed down in the next sentence, but of course the reader still doesn't know exactly "what she was used to." "[O]ld world" might still be rather ambiguous, but we know enough to glean that the mutt exists in a fallen world, one that lacks the comforts and certainties she once enjoyed.

Finally, this sentence, from a particularly powerful section in which the priest encounters a native woman, cradling her child:

"It was a male child -- perhaps three years old : a withered bullet head with a mop of black hair: unconscious, but not dead: he could feel the faintest movement in the breast" (150).

In this close third-person narration, our speaker carefully brings the boy into focus. The broad stroke of "male child" sharpens to the delicate sensitivity of the "faintest movement" of the boy's heart. As the reality of the situation takes form for the priest, the precariousness of the situation is brought into high definition.

Perhaps it's because of the third-person narration of The Power and the Glory that we see such a 'writerly' attention to form. The first-person narrators of The Third Man and The Quiet American, a detective and a journalist, respectively, are men of facts, who would probably prefer to lead with the crystallized image than let it come gradually into focus over the course of a sentence.

Stranger in a Strange Land

Doesn't quite fit, does it?

            In the Gospels, we often see Jesus among sinners. The writers make it perfectly clear that it should seem odd that a man claiming to be the Son of God associated with the outcasts of society. Similarly, Greene has given us a view of the whiskey priest, which we might not necessarily expect from a priest. However, with the change in setting in chapter 3, we can see just how much more the priest doesn’t fit into the preconceived notion that people have of priests.

            I’d like to start by backtracking, for a moment, to the mestizo from earlier in chapter 2. The whiskey priest made it clear that he, rightfully, did not trust this man from the beginning. Despite this, when I read that scene, the mestizo did not seem like somebody who should not be trusted. He offered the priest directions, shelter, and advice for caring for his mule. He wanted to confess his sins to the whiskey priest. Although, this did turn out to be a ruse, I did not expect that from the mestizo. Until his true motives were revealed, I thought that the priest was being overly cynical.

            In chapter 3, we find the priest surrounded by prisoners (murderers, thieves; the plagues of society).  The old man whose child was taken from him openly declares his hatred for priests. Very shortly after, the priest declares himself as a priest. For the first time in the novel, we see the priest opening up, but it is not to anybody that we should see as trustworthy. The fact is that these people are in prison, and have given no reason for the priest to trust them. In fact, it seems like he should have feared them. Any one of them could have turned him in, or even killed him. We saw Padre Jose in a similar situation in part 1. Yet, he felt strangely at home and safe among these sinners. He feels so safe among them that he actually starts to talk about his fears and sins, admitting that he fathered an illegitimate child, and never, as he puts it, senses a Judas among them.

            If the whiskey priest already didn’t fit how we view a priest, this chapter about him sitting in a jail cell among dirty prisoners would only further that thought. On one hand, this makes the whiskey priest a very human character. He has humility, recognizes his own faults, and fears his seemingly inevitable death. On the other hand, though, he seemed to exhibit some almost Christly aspects during this chapter. He speaks openly to the sinners he meets in this chapter, much like Jesus did. He also speaks again about the idea of suffering for an eventual reward in heaven. He puts himself in God’s hands, and says that if God saved him from death this time, it must mean that he “could still be of use in saving a soul” (129). I think there are other scenes where Greene presents the whiskey priest as both a very holy and very humanly figure.

The question I’d like to pose is: Do you think that the whiskey priest most exemplifies qualities of a Christ figure, a priest, or a regular person?

Best Intentions

Throughout the first two chapters of The Power and the Glory, Graham Greene portrays the lieutenant as the antagonist.  Ruthless and cunning, he doesn’t hesitate to end numerous lives to achieve his ultimate goal: the death of the whiskey priest.  He also appears to be utterly devoid of any emotion, thinking of the lives taken as merely a means to achieve an end.  In the small exchange between him and the priest in chapter three, when the priest says his cousin was shot in a neighborhood that the lieutenant had frequented (and presumably taken lives in), the lieutenant replies rather flatly with “that was not my fault,” only further demonstrating the way he disregards life.

Yet in this very passage, we see a side of the lieutenant that goes against his character.  There are actually a number of quotes that support this.  First, when the priest asks permission to leave the prison, he refers to the lieutenant as “Excellency.”  While the lieutenant the reader is familiar with comes across as controlling and power hungry, yet here he replies with, “I am not an excellency.  Learn to call things by their right names.”  Now granted, he did end his response with a bit of a retort, but the fact that he directly denies that he is anything of “an excellency,” especially when a meager prisoner refers to him as such, speaks to a much different lieutenant, a somewhat more relatable one.  He is not as arrogant as he once appeared.

However, the best example of the lieutenant’s break in character occurs in the lines that follow.  After the priest admits he has no money to pay his fine, the lieutenant asks a very humane question: “How will you live?”  It appears as though he genuinely cares (on some level) about the stranger’s future.  The whiskey priest replies by saying he could possibly find some work, and the passage that follows paints a very compassionate version of the lieutenant: “‘You are getting too old for work.’  He put his hand suddenly in his pocket and pulled out a five-peso piece.  ‘There,’ he said.”  Analyzing the quote, what is first apparent is the lieutenant’s initial reply.  His statement furthers the notion that he is actually a fairly kind person - he doesn’t want the stranger to have to work, because he believes it will be too hard for him.  In addition, the act of giving a stranger (a convict, even) a fairly sizable sum of money like he did demonstrates the utmost concern and consideration for his villagers.  Simply put, he broke the mold.

If one were to merely read this passage out of the context of the book, he or she would get a starkly contrasting image of the lieutenant that we are familiar with.  I believe that in this passage, Graham Greene illustrates that the lieutenant is acting on best intentions when attempting to eradicate the priest from the village, and that he is delusional in his methods (not fully realizing the harm and pain he causes by killing in order to achieve his goal).  The question I leave you with is this: Do you agree with me - is the lieutenant actually a good man? Or do you believe this is more of a PR stunt, or (alternatively) a mere positive blip on his overall negative radar?

The Incompatibility of His Duties

In Part One of The Power and the Glory, Graham Greene characterizes the “whiskey priest” through the diverse eyes of individuals whose lives have intersected with this mysterious being. The furtive “whiskey priest” leaves many questions unanswered as the reader longs to delve into his consciousness, to trace the roots of his past, to witness the mental processes  influencing this elusive figure’s speech and action. Greene provides just that glimpse as Part Two commences, granting the reader passage into the tormented mind of his protagonist whose duty to God, self, and family clash in a tumultuous mental battle of will.

 

As the “whiskey priest” makes his way home, he acknowledges the concessions he has made in his spiritual duties as a priest. He notes that “the years behind him here littered with surrenders” (60) as “penalties of the ecclesiastical kind began to seem unreal in a state where the only penalty was the civil one of death” (60). In renouncing his physical obligations as a priest (acknowledgement of feast days, carrying of altar stone, etc.) the priest acknowledges the incompatibility of survival with his former religiosity in this new society. The clash between survival and sanctity torments the priest, as his physical and mental health has suffered noticeably. As a Catholic, the priest obviously highly values the sanctity of his own life.  His identity of fugitive is a fulfillment of this necessity for preservation of self. Yet, the identity of fugitive requires a renouncing of his spiritual objects and diligent performance of sacred rituals. The “fugitive priest” is thus inherently contradictory, two irreconcilable requirements of the self that, in his attempt to fulfill, only lead to further agony.

  Additionally, the priest struggles immensely in attempting to embrace his identity as fugitive, spiritual minister, and father.  When the priest is surrounded by the children in town, he begins to address them with “my children” but stops in his tracks, noting that “it seemed to him that only the childless man has the right to call strangers his children” (62). As a father to Brigitta and former “partner” of Maria, the priest feels an “immense load of responsibility “(66), a responsibility to be the influential male figure in the life of the unruly, contemptuous Brigitta, to “guard her against the nonexistent” (67).  Greene underscores the idea that the priest’s duty to be a father, husband and nomad is an implausible undertaking with the idea of the “nonexistent”.  Being a father requires a permanence that the “whiskey priest” cannot afford, a “sickness now” (64) who is unable to safely wait for the nonexistent to come into fruition if he hopes to spare his own life. As he parts from Brigitta, the priest recognizes his spiritual calling to protect the entire world, but he finds his passion “tethered and aching like a hobbled animal to the tree trunk” (82-83). His passions can only be fully invested in one place, and the tension produced by his flight into the wilderness hobbles him, as he seems in that instant to long for his fatherly duties. The many identities the priest can choose to embrace at this point cannot coexist with one another, clashing duties that in an attempted coexistence will unquestionably continue to torment his soul.

Questions to consider:  Does the” whiskey priest” show any potential to be a competent minister in this chapter of the novel or does his own self-doubt prove too incapacitating? In what ways does the “whiskey priest” show he has embraced his fugitive side?

Not so Warm Welcome

            We’ve all seen the classic sitcom opening; the husband has the longest, most tiresome day at work, and comes home to his wife and family berating him.  Yet we do not hear a laugh track or feel a sense of slapstick when a similar scene plays out in the whisky priest’s return home.  Instead of coming home in a cushy automobile to a nice, warm house, the priest instead trots into a pretty meek town on a smelly mule.  This scene and the dialogue that follows between the priest, Maria, and the townspeople, represent the recurring theme of the priest being unwanted.  His warm welcome has turned into a rude awakening, and thanks to the practices of the lieutenant, no matter where the priest goes from now on, it seems he will be shunned. 

            As the priest trots into town on the tired mule, he feels like he has come to the place that “he most wanted to be” (59), a place that will welcome him at last.  He soon finds out that nothing could be further from the truth.  Instead of being welcomed home, he is met by a very anxious group of people who cannot wait to show him the door.  Maria, whom he had an affair and child with, certainly is not thrilled to see him, and one-by-one the townspeople express their discomfort at his homecoming.  They ask if “he will be here long, father” (63), or if he “couldn’t go a bit further north to Pueblito” (63).  Clearly, this is not the welcome he anticipated and their “expressions of shyness and unwillingness” (63) at his presence only furthers the idea that he is truly unwelcome.  It seems as though this town is like Captain Fellows’s barn, it is a place to stay the night, but no longer than that. 

           Although the townspeople appear to be keen on shunning the whisky priest only due to the lieutenant’s harsh practices in taking and killing hostages, I believe this meeting in his hometown is the first of many.  Where could he possibly turn to now?  He has already gotten a man killed due to leaving wine behind in Concepciòn, and many weren’t exactly hospitable to him before the lieutenant’s harsh practices took effect.  Even as the whisky priest looks to leave, he is met by Maria who destroys his wine to prevent another "mistake" of his, and blatantly states that he is “no good any more to anyone” (78).  With no one and nowhere to turn to, the whisky priest turns southward, his fleeting happiness gone.

Question for discussion:  With the practices of the lieutenant revealed to him, should the whisky priest turn himself in?

Graham Greene Web Round-up

A new book captures Greene's experiences in both Haiti and Panama, as he confronts some ruthless dictators.

A contributor at Vol 1. Brooklyn blog is on a Graham Greene kick.

Hide til I Die

             Having your tenth birthday party ruined because of a guest’s death is, quite literally, a buzzkill. Colin Henne-Falcon was misfortunate enough to experience this, as Francis Morton was invited. In “The End of the Party,” Greene presents the reader with a character who is nearly impossible to sympathize with because of his abject weakness. He fails on numerous occasions to communicate his fears to others, cannot to socialize with his peers, and relies completely upon his twin brother Peter for comfort and protection. Greene also relates the common childhood fear of the dark to the adult fear of death. In doing so, he implicitly criticizes the hypocrisy of adults and provides the reader with his view of death.

            Greene uses countless adjectives to describe Francis’ delicate personality. He is humiliated (30), desperate (31), panicked (31), overwhelmed (31), afraid (32), despairing (32), removed (32), troubled (33), fearful (33), terrified (34), cowardly (34), and frightened (34). Francis lacks the courage to confess his fears to Ms. Henne-Falcon (which is definitely a reference to the bird attacking/looming over Francis), his nurse, or even his parents, and looks to his brother as a means of escaping negative situations. He also does not socialize well with other children; he allows Joyce and Mabel Warren to torment him and generally does not stand up for himself. These laundry list of faults create a character who ultimately too feeble to live in the world. Greene labels Francis’ time in utero as a “struggle in pain and darkness” (29). Francis’ lack of development forces the question: did he ever escape that pain and darkness?

Francis, all the time.

            However, Greene does not tell the tale of a pathetic child’s ignominious death to condemn childhood fears as insignificant and irrational. Rather, children’s fear of the dark mirrors adults’ fear of death. Greene conveys to us Francis’ understanding of this, “[Francis] knew how they taught also that there was nothing to fear in death, and how fearfully they avoided the idea of it” (32). In essence, adults fear death in the same way children regard the dark, and are thus hypocritical in their denunciations. At the conclusion, Peter’s sixth-sense connection to Francis reveals that Francis’ fear continues after his death. This confuses Peter, and he wonders, “why the pulse of his brother’s fear went on and on, when Francis was now where he had always been told there was no more terror and no more darkness?” (36). This serves as an indicator that death is dark and terrifying – not a particularly uplifting message. And certainly no way to end a birthday party.

Questions:

1) Considering who “killed” Francis, is his death ironic?

2) Why is Francis unable to overcome his fear of the dark/assert himself?

There's Nothing To Be Afraid Of

The themes of loyalty and childhood innocence appear again in “The End of the Party”, but in a different light. At first glance, the story seems to be a typical “face your fears” narrative, it does not sound like the usual Graham Greene story at all. There are no references of WWII or a broken world, just Francis Morton’s phobia of the dark, a common fear among children.  But the ending has Graham Greene written all over it; not only because of Francis’ death but because it gives the story an entirely new meaning. The death came as a shock to me; I was expecting Francis to overcome his fear and perhaps a pair of wet pants. I decided to reread the story and discovered imagery of death on practically every page. Francis even mentions his own death twice! “’I dreamed that I was dead,’” (29) he remarks when he first wakes up and, later, tries to excuse himself from the party all together saying, “’Perhaps I shall die’” (30).

Greene does not want us to foresee Francis’ death because he equates us with the adults of the story. We ignore all the clues and images, deeming them childish and silly. Greene anticipated that we would dismiss Francis’ fear as folly because we have lost touch with our childhood innocence. We no longer feel the real, intense emotion, in this case terror, which would have overwhelmed us at a young age. Greene never forgot how truly horrified children can get when it comes to trivial fears like darkness. Francis’ mother, not understanding the extremity of the problem, constantly reminds him: “You know there’s nothing to be afraid of in the dark”(32).

On the other side of the spectrum we have Peter, Francis’ twin brother, who feels obliged to serve as a guardian and guide. He is one of the most loyal companions we have read about so far. Peter relates to Francis’ problems with ease because they physically look the same and they think very similarly. Thus, by simply looking at his mirror image, Peter can see the terror in Francis’ eyes as he thinks about their birthday party. Peter understands Francis’ fear of the dark and helps him in every way possible to avoid playing hide and seek. He makes excuses for Francis, ranging from sickness to discarding the game from the program completely. Peter speaks with the adults, but they are simply unable to see past the idea that the phobia is not a big deal. They are unaware of the severity of Francis’ fright and pay no attention to his pleas. So while I want to yell at the grown-ups for not listening to Francis, I feel it would be hypocritical as I too did not realize the extent of his trauma.

Question: What significance do the avian references hold for the story?

Two Roads Diverged

There comes a point in everyone’s life when one past catches up with him or her. Some people try to relive the glory of the old days in a simpler and easier time, while others shy away from the past and view it as only the pathway to experience. In Graham Greene’s short story “The Innocent”, we see the narrator struggle with both of these conflicting ideals when he visits his birthplace.

Through out the short story, Greene utilizes the many surroundings of the narrator such as the sand heap and the school and church he used to know in order to show how the narrator is trying to relive his past. Interestingly enough, regardless of the narrator’s feelings towards the sights around him, he cannot escape his present life, which is represented by the lady Lola that he brought with him. Though the narrator attempts to sever this tie by leaving Lola at the bar, he eventually comes back to her at the end of the night. The narrator remarks, “it wasn’t her fault that she didn’t belong here.” (43) This only further shows how the narrator now doesn’t view his present life as fitting in with the innocence of his past.

One of the narrator’s most definitive moments of nostalgia comes when he is reflecting on his love for a girl from his childhood. Interestingly enough, this is the one memory that isn’t directly triggered by something that the narrator sees. Regardless, it serves as a perfect juxtaposition to Lola who is his more experienced love. The narrator does not diminish the importance or strength of this love that he once had regardless of the age that it occurred at. He even goes as far as to say “I loved her with an intensity I have never felt since, I believe, for anyone.” (45)

Near the end of the story, the narrator has a final revelation that in my opinion represents the story as a whole. In the final paragraph of the short story, the narrator says “I had believed I was drawing something with a meaning unique and beautiful; it was only now after thirty years of life that the picture seemed obscene.” (46) After reflecting on both his relationship with his present (Lola) and his past (childhood love), the narrator concludes that his experiences in life have shaped him and has corrupted his view of love. He no longer feels the same attachment through love towards Lola that he did towards the girl from his past. There is a certain sense of a resignation from the narrator as though he accepts the experiences that he had and is now ready to move on. Despite this, I do not see the end of the short story as being bleak. From the fact that he begins the paragraph by saying, “I felt at first as if I had been betrayed” (46), I believe that he has used this visit to his birthplace as an acknowledgement of his past in order to move further into his future.

Questions: What role did Lola play in the narrator’s experience and was she necessary in the narrator’s development as a character? Do you view the ending of the story as a positive step forward for the narrator or as a reflection of missed opportunities?

Time and Memory

      Nostalgia.  We all feel it at one point or another.  It's that feeling we get when we find some artefact of our past, be it a place, an object, or even a person.  It's that vague feeling that although we cannot entirely recall the events connected to this artefact, we know that they were, in some way, approaching perfection.  Now, at this point, we may recall that just as life is not perfect now, it was not perfect then; but we just can't shake the feeling that we have been cheated by time, moving from something superior to something inferior.

      So it is in Graham Greene's short story, "The Innocent."  The narrator has, after some long space of time, returned to his childhood home, and he is bombarded with old memories.  He recognizes, for example, the almshouses.  Lola remarks that they are not what she expected of the country, and the narrator goes so far as to call them ugly buildings.  However, he muses that because they are a part of his past, he cannot see them as anything other than beautiful.  Of course, this is only seen in the narrator's mind: Lola simply sees another run-down little town.  This is the power fo the nostalgia that the narrator is feeling at the moment: it is changing his perception of the world around him.

      Of course, the narrator has not sunken back into his past completely.  He remarks on feeling apart from his past, almost as though he is a different person.  He is coming from the city, with a woman who has nothing to do with his childhood.  Every time he finds something changed, he grows confused or angry, sensing that he cannot simply relive his childhood on account of the time that has past.  The narrator comes from a different world; William Blake might call it the Realm of Experience.  He can interact with the Innocence of his childhood, but he cannot leave his world to join another: he has lost this innocence, and although he tries to retrieve it, he finds that he has gained (or, perhaps, lost) too much.

      Thus, when he recalls the slip of paper that symbolises his epic love for the anonymous girl, he becomes very excited.  He cannot recall what is written on the paper, but he knows that is was the result of all of his passion put to paper.  Upon finding the paper, therefore, and the crude picture that is drawn on it, he feels cheated.  His memories seem to have lied to him: what he remembered as true love seems to be only an obscene fantasy.  It is only later that the narrator realizes the significance of the slip of paper.  It was, in fact, meant to be a depiction of love and passion; it is only the narrator's mind that interprets the drawing as obscene.

      This instance demonstrates the true separation of the worlds of Innocence and Experience.  The narrator has spent the whole story attempting to relive the time of innocence.  This attempt has proven futile, as the narrator attempts to impose his current understanding of the world on his experiences as a child.  He cannot truly relive his childhood, as he has lost the innocence that defined it.  Therefore, I pose the question: Is it impossible to understand youth and innocence from the viewpoint of the experienced and jaded?  Or is it only the narrator's attempt to live in both worlds at once that causes his failure?  How is it that something can seem "unique and beautiful" to a child, but appear obscene to an adult?

Dangers of Zealotry

*I feel this is vaguely related to the story but not to my actual blog post*

    In “A Hint of an Explanation,” Greene certainly does not hesitate to point out the various, pitfalls of religion. In the scene beginning on page 74, when David describes his home town in East Anglia, he immediately goes into the “tradition of hostility to us [Catholics]”  (74) by the Protestants over an atrocity committed by their ancestors a couple of centuries back. I think the word tradition is very pointed here, because the word is so often associated with religious belief, as every religion has its own traditions. Here he shows how this tradition has, over time, become ingrained into the social structure of this small town. He is ridiculed and called Popey Martin by other children at school, yet at the time he doesn’t know why other then it “had something to do with my religion” (75). Probably, the children who mock him have no reason to dislike Catholics— they probably don’t even know what Catholicism is outside of the fact that they follow the Pope. They simply follow the example of their parents, who followed the example of their parents, and so on.

    When they come out of mass every Sunday, it always coincides with the time that the mass (as in group, God help you if you call a “worship service” a Mass) of Protestants passes by on their way to “the proper church—[David] always thought of it as the proper church. [The Catholics] had to pass the parade of their eyes—indifferent, supercilious, mocking” (75). This happens every Sunday, over and over again, a tradition unto itself. The constant ridicule and hostility makes him, as a young child, feel that his religion is improper, illegitimate, and makes him an outsider even in such a small town. And all this hostility is aimed at him simply for his being in a different religious group than the Protestants, even though they share most of the same beliefs, the same Bible, the same Savior, the same Commandments, etc. I think that Greene, in describing this, clearly points out the illogical obsessions and wrongs that tradition and religious belief can compel people to commit if they are taken too far.

    I think this obsession comes up most pointedly with Blacker, who I see as a religious fanatic for Atheism. His quest to obtain a consecrated Eucharist becomes an obsession and a focus for him, simply so that he can examine them under a microscope and prove that there is no difference between it and a normal wafer, as evidenced by his constant repeated question "what's the difference?" (77).

    I don't think Greene is condemning religion in any way, the David, on the train, is immeasurably happy with his life and convinced of the presence of God, yet remains open to discussion and does not shut off any ideas which contradict his own. At the same time, the agnostic narrator who often doubts his own belief in God is also described as open minded and willing to be convinced with enough evidence.

Question: Does Greene reveal any personal resentment against the Protestants in this story?

Loyalty, Betrayal, and "When I was your age..."

            In the introduction to “The Hint of an Explanation,” the writer gives a brief biography of Greene, and, on page 71, notes Greene’s predicament as the son of the headmaster. Understandably, Greene was often “in the position of choosing between loyalty to his peers or loyalty to his father.” These experiences contributed to two major themes in his work, which the author of the biography describes as “the choice between loyalty and betrayal” and “childhood experience[s].” Our class has already witnessed both of these themes in “The Destructors” to their own extents; there is an underlying sense of loyalty that the boys have for T. as essentially their impromptu leader, and the story obviously focuses on what could be a pivotal moment in the lives of all of the children involved. In “The Hint of an Explanation,” Greene highlights these elements even more, as they become the driving force of the story.

            This is most evident in the climactic scene towards the end of the story, when Blacker stands outside David’s window, asking for the Host. Throughout the narrative, David focused more and more on the transubstantiation, to the point of correcting himself mid-sentence: “I went to the chair and picked it—Him—up.” (pg. 81) This represents the growing sense of loyalty David has to God and his faith, and giving the Host to a man as ugly and hateful as Blacker would betray Him. Indeed, as the Eucharist is the Body of Christ, we can draw a parallel between David and the biblical Judas, the biggest difference being the prize (thirty pieces of silver for Judas, and a train for David). Thus, faithfulness seems to be David’s motivation for refusing Blacker’s offer, underscoring the importance of loyalty.

            Greene’s second theme arises in a relatively staggering impact of this childhood experience for David. Before he leaves the train, we learn he has decided to become a priest, strongly suggesting that this one incident from his childhood at least partially influenced his choice of vocation.

           

            These two ideas still carry their power today, as seen in the film Inception, released over sixty years after Greene wrote his short story. In the movie’s subplot about Robert Fischer, the protagonists (or, “dream team,” as I call them) attempt to convince Fischer to dissolve his father’s company using (1) his love for, or loyalty to, his father and (2) memories from his childhood, partially embodied in the picture of young Robert and his pinwheel. The characters face a task they repeatedly describe as near impossible, but subscribe to the elements Greene outlines for their best chance at success. (Spoiler alert for the clip.)     

            Greene develops these critical themes to the fairly sudden conclusion of the story, which leaves a lot of loose ends for the reader. Perhaps most importantly, we can wonder if the agnostic narrator received a “hint” by the end. Whether he did or didn’t, what kind of changes in the narrator’s life from that point on can we postulate, if any?