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“I have no talent.”

greene

It’s the birthday of novelist Graham Greene (books by this author), born in Berkhamsted, England (1904). He described the citizens of his hometown as “slitty eyed and devious,” and he had an unhappy childhood. He came from a prominent local family, and his father was the headmaster of his school, where Greene was bullied and attempted suicide several times. At the age of 16, he tried running away. His parents sent him to London to be treated by a psychoanalyst, an experience he thoroughly enjoyed. He decided that his biggest problem was boredom, and he began playing Russian roulette.

He went on to Oxford, where he published his first book, a book of poetry called Babbling April (1925). It was a flop. He got a job as a copywriter for The Times of London and spent years working as a journalist. He said, “A petty reason perhaps why novelists more and more try to keep a distance from journalists is that novelists are trying to write the truth and journalists are trying to write fiction.”

Greene was an obsessive traveler. At Oxford, he offered his services to the German government as a propagandist if they would pay his expenses to travel in France. During World War II, he joined MI6, the British Intelligence Service, and was posted to Sierra Leone. He visited Prague during the Communist takeover, Kenya during the Mau Mau Uprising, Haiti under the reign of brutal dictator “Papa Doc” Duvalier, and covered the Vietnam War and the 1967 Arab-Israeli conflict. He wrote 24 novels, many of them set in the places he had visited. He said: “I travel because I have to see the scene. I can’t imagine it.”

His first big success was Stamboul Train (1932), published as Orient Express in America. It is set onboard the Orient Express headed to Istanbul, and follows the fate of the passengers, including a Jewish businessman, an exiled Socialist doctor, a lesbian journalist, a chorus girl, and a murderer. Greene said: “In Stamboul Train for the first and last time in my life I deliberately set out to write a book to please, one which with luck might be made into a film. The devil looks after his own and I succeeded in both aims.”

Greene wrote The Heart of the Matter (1948) about an English colonial policeman stationed in Sierra Leone. He is passed over for a promotion, his marriage is failing, his love affair makes him feel guilty for betraying his Catholicism, and a local diamond smuggler constantly manipulates him. Greene described his main character, Scobie, as “a weak man with good intentions doomed by his big sense of pity.”

The Comedians (1966) was set in Haiti under Papa Doc’s rule, narrated by a hotel owner named Brown. The novel upset Papa Doc so much that he published a pamphlet accusing Greene of being “a liar, a cretin, a stool-pigeon … unbalanced, sadistic, perverted … a perfect ignoramus … lying to his heart’s content … the shame of proud and noble England.”

A Burnt-Out Case (1960) was the story of a depressed architect who traveled to a Congolese leper colony.

Greene said, “I have no talent; it’s just a question of working, of being willing to put in the time.”

From The Writer’s Almanac

It’s also the birthday of Wallace Stevens.

Good question.

wallace stevens wood cut

How could a conservative, heterosexual, monogamous, stay-at-home vice president of an insurance company produce the sort of art that makes Allen Ginsberg–fine man, mediocre poet–look like Robert Service?

Wallace Stevens: Seven Teal Claws

For Francis Heaney, author of Anthology Holy Tango of Literature

In the Walmart at the end of the mind
The sale of sales will blare. Such sales prevail
On pockets burning, lucrative, unsolved.

(Here, rudiments of bathroom fixtures are
Mere plastic tusks, those spigot handles held.)
The shoppers’ eyes are green because they’re spent.

This is not paradise of consumption,
Of filthy lucre, filth that lucre lost,
Except it needs illimitable claws

To animate my tub, splayed, erect and cast
In iron as lashing lions’ lilting loins:
A rub-a-dub-dub and hoolah halub!

Excruciations make of love and hate
One frustration for Sunday morning sales –
The numbered, colored rage for ordered claws!

It goes beyond the pale of pale Ramon!
O sullied orphanage of economics!
The tub, the sink: that’s four and four makes eight –

But shelves are stocked with teal not puce
With perfect panoplies of teal not puce –
The paltry puce and the managing man

Were adamant to say, no matter how,
“You ordered eight, but only seven came”
To slash the veld’s gazelle: It’s all the same.

Another reason we know Noel made the right decision

Not that we really needed one, mind you. But I wonder if it occurred to Liam how dreadfully undereducated he seems right now.

I haven’t heard the Radiohead song, mind you, but in a sense that’s immaterial. Any two-bit from Fleet Street knows you don’t go off cherrypicking what is and isn’t fair game for the muse.  I’ts one thing not to see the forest for the trees, but for Mr. Gallagher, it appears he can’t even locate the bloody forest!

The Spear wrote about ’em.

As did Eddy the London Lad.

Not to mention John Boy.

Bobby and Wally the Yankee Gents too.

As for his own true and tried blood – ah, well, it’s himself Billy B! writes about such things, don’t he?

And even Famous Seamus flung off a few lines about a bush.

Not that I’m taking it personally