So far, this is the less convincing book by Greene I picked up this year (which means at all).
The main character is an author so famous that one of his novels has been made into a movie (in the 1940s) and yet he has a landlady?! Oh come on! There are no aspidistras flying here.
And although some pages are beautifully written and highly enjoyable -think to the accounts of Mr Parkis and "his boy"- others look a bit silly.
"I'm in love" says the poor famous novelist to the woman he likes "for her brain" while he's on the verge of saying good night to her after flirting over a dish of onions.
Well, I assume this naive declaration sums up my distaste for certain elements of this book. From the likes of Graham Greene I was expecting something of more sophisticated!