Graham Greene's latest novel has all the ingredients of a successful suspense story: it is set in Haiti, a small, romantic island run by a cruel dictator; the narrator, owner of a deserted luxury hotel, is carrying on an affair with an ambassador's wife; the action is a network of plots and violent encounters with the sinister secret police, climaxing in an unachieved revolution. But the book is deadly dull. The characters drag through their parts listlessly, like unconvinced actors, hardly caring what happens to them. Events pile up without meaning or suspense. Graham Greene has written some exciting--and meaningful--books. What went wrong with this one?

From the beginning, everything seems unreal. We meet the most important characters on a small freighter bound for Port-au-Prince from New York. But instead of escaping into fantasy, we are immersed in one of those old movies about a group of wildly disparate travelers locked together in a tight situation. For the people are plausible only as creations of a novelist at the end of his rope, searching for something to add zest to his book. A 1948 Presidential candidate on the Vegetarian ticket and his stiff-upper-lipped wife; a mysterious adventurer, escaping from Philadelphia; a Negro undertaker who utters only "yes" and "no" and bursts into tears at the end of the trip--almost a floating "I Love Lucy."

And when we learn how most of them behave we believe in them even less. The vegetarian and his wife, for example, have one important character trait. They "believe passionately in the integrity of all the world." Although they have spent their lives crusading vainly and have witnessed a great deal of violence and cruelty, they are convinced that everyone is basically good. Smiling, they distribute money to armless, legless beggars and cluck sadly at racial violence in the South. When they are pushed around for no reason by expressionless secret police and their innocent friends are beaten and locked up, they just keep smiling and don't think for a moment that Haiti's despotism might be less than benevolent. Yet we are asked to believe that they are perceptive and intelligent.

Blundering Blindness

When they finally give up and decide that vegetarianism will not flourish in an impoverished country of starving, terrorized peasants controlled by the secret police, pack up their yeastrol and barmene, their departure is called "heroic." That such indomitable optimists are set back by Haiti is supposed to show us how terrible the situation is, but all it does is make us cringe with embarrassment for their feeble, blundering blindness.

But unreal characters aren't enough to make a book this dull. After all, we do care about the vegetarians enough to cringe mildly for them. And a few of the other characters are interesting, too: the little criminal, who is always making up stories about himself and planning great escapades which invariably fail, or the Haitian doctor, a gentle, philosophical communist. And there's not nearly enough about the narrator's mother, who writes to her Haitian lover: "Marcel, I know I'm an old woman and as you say a bit of an actress. But please go on pretending. As long as we pretend we escape. Pretend that I love you like a mistress. Pretend that you love me like a lover. Pretend that I would die for you and that you would die for me." Corny stereotypes can be enjoyable.

Periodic Sex

The narrator, though an individual, is the most boring character of all. All he wants is to run his hotel successfully and have sex periodically. He is sleeping with the wife of an ambassador from a small South American country, and although he says he loves her, the only emotion she ever provokes in him is mild, petty jealousy. He describes events flatly and dully, and one often wonders why he ever does anything at all. His one definitive action--smuggling a prisoner across the border--is by his own admission performed only to get the man away from his mistress, even though he has no grounds for suspecting a liaison between them. Although others in the book comment on his courage, his only real motive is baseless jealousy. There seems to be nothing in this man worth writing about, no interests or emotions. And any story seen from his viewpoint must be as pointless and dull as he.

Astounding Naivete

Greene handles most of his scenes with astonding naivete. As the narrator is being beaten and questioned by the secret police, the vegetarian wife, her hair in curlers, slowly descends the stairs uttering brusque commands in abysmal French. The secret police, rifles in hand, mumble and blush and leave abashed. After reading half the book, one learns that all situations have neutral endings--nothing is settled, no crisis is reached or even begun. Any interest the bizarre characters or ludicrous events might have created ebbs, leaving nothing in its wake.

But boring books can mean some

...A 1948 Presidential candidate on the Vegetarian ticket and his stiff-upper-lipped wife; a mysterious adventurer, escaping from Philadelphia; a Negro undertaker who utters only "yes" and "no" and bursts into tears at the end of the trip almost a floating "I Lover Luey." thing. They can be profound, can't they? This one contrasts two kinds of people, the committed and the uncommitted. The narrator represents the alienated side, naturally. He was born in Monaco, and thus has no real nationality. His mother ran away when he was young and he never knew his father. He is a man without a home and clings to his hotel, inherited by a lucky chance, as his only bit of security. No wonder he keeps coming back to the cruel island that he hates. And no wonder he really doesn't care about anything.

In contrast are the vegetarian and assorted rebellious Haitians. These people do have a purpose in life, and I guess we are supposed to notice how much richer their lives are even though their projects fail. But this obvious meaning sticks in our throats. Greene has so infused his narrator's personality with ennui and detachment that we cannot imagine his caring about anything under any circumstances, with any upbringing. And the people who are committed are all such pitiful, blundering fools that we almost prefer the narrator to them. Perhaps their lives have more meaning, but when forced to compare their world views, the only one anywhere near reality is the narrator's. Greene obviously admires the idealists, but if the reader finds anyone admirable, it is the narrator.

The novel's only success is in its title. The comedians are all the characters, playing out their painful, useless little lives under the blistering sun, supposedly caring deeply about all sorts of things which can be considered only comic when compared to the course of humanity itself, or the universe. Every once in a while the narrator steps back and comments on how they are all comedians, as sad and funny as clowns on a stage. The real irony is that the narrator never has to step back and comments on how they are all comedians, as sad and funny as clowns on a stage. The real irony is that the narrator never has to step back; these people are always ludicrous, always sadly, pitifully funny. If only Greene had exaggerated just a bit more, this really could have been a very funny fantasy instead of an unsuccessful attempt at adventure