A conversation with Graham Greene

Abstract

‘No, it's not true,’ he said. He was sitting in a red chair by the window and raised his right hand in an energetic gesture to emphasise his reply. Looking at his hands, you wouldn't think they had produced literary works. They seem rather to be the hands of an old sculptor, damaged by life-long handling of stone, hands which contrast strangely with the features of his face, held on the Continent to be the typical face of a British intellectual. But maybe there is no contradiction here: a life spent forming ideas and literary characters possibly finds its expression in a soulful face and damaged hands. In Czechoslovakia, where I come from, his latest books circulate like samizdat publications — they depend on somebody returning ‘from abroad who manages to smuggle them through the border controls. For 15 years, his works have not been translated and his older books, already translated into Czech, have not been republished, although it would have been very lucrative for the publishing houses. An edition of 100,000 copies would vanish from the bookshops on the day of publication. So why isn't he published?