So I could ask him what in the world he was thinking with The Man Within.
The self-described “novelist who happened to be Catholic” and I have had a love affair dating back to my introduction to his End of the Affair. No puns intended. Since then, I’ve steadily worked my way through his English views of American ignorance abroad in The Quiet American, the psychopath’s guide to teenage years in Brighton Rock, and two armfuls of Catholic generated guilt complexes in Englishmen misplaced abroad. Who else could mass produce individually conflicted, flawed protagonists running through corrupt and complex backdrops chalk full of local flavors? And even if you didn’t like his writing, you had to be a fan of his dedicated approach. “My books are my children . . . . perhaps it’s an unfortunate admission, but it’s every writer’s obsession, and it will [win] out. I’m not a part-timer.”
Inherently, on a personal and literary level, color me eighteen shades of excited to read one of my favorite author’s first novels. Having completed it, I’m here to say what most of you already know.
Ick.
Summary of The Man Within. Wikipedia. “It tells the story of Francis Andrews, a reluctant smuggler, who betrays his colleagues and the aftermath of his betrayal.” Sarah Moffett. “Andrews is an insufferably, unlikable coward who first betrays his colleagues to prove he can outwit them after his woeful worthlessness becomes apparent, only testifies at trial against them for the promise of a harlot, and ultimately leaves the love of his life to die at the hands of said avenging smugglers.” There was not a splash of Phillip Marlow to be found in the same universe as Andrews.
Seriously, it’s a bad sign when The Man Within’s main character makes me miss Brighton Rock’s Pinkie. At least Pinkie the psychopath had purpose and drive. Andrews is the most pitiful, unlikable, useless protagonist Green ever created. Or, as the book describes him, Andrews “character was built of superficial dreams, sentimentality, cowardice, and yet he was constantly made aware beneath all these of an uncomfortable, questioning critic.” Team Andrews just got very small.
The only thing worse than Andrews was wading through 73 pages of Part I for something, anything to happen. Greene is a master of existential Catholic angst. In this first novel, he exercised a young authors natural tendency to over describe scenery and emotions while minimalizing action and meaningful dialogue. When I say “exercise,” I mean run marathons. Or as the introduction by Jonathan Yardley notes, “he had not yest mastered the novelist’s most essential skill—in the development of characters and themes, show, don’t tell . . . .” Note to self.
Even Greene wrote “The Man Within is very young and sentimental. It has no meaning for me today and I can see no reason for its success.” Yet there is one reason why I am thankful for this grinding read. It was Greene’s first novel. And thank goodness he got his start somehow. Something every published author can say.
Well, except OJ Simpson’s ghostwriter.
