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A review by paul_cornelius
The Honorary Consul by Graham Greene, Nicholas Shakespeare
3.0
Nothing in The Honorary Consul seems ever to reach beyond the tone in color of a smokey gray evening with a streak of red to mark the setting of the sun. Graham Greene uses this very description to provide a landscape for the remote Argentine city on a river, the Parana, that borders Paraguay. But this tone also invades the character of the people present in the novel. Eduardo Plarr, a doctor of medicine, is someone who has had all belief drained out of him, just as his childhood friend, Father Rivas, has been mostly emptied of the belief that should have driven his chosen path as a priest. The other major character, Charley Fortnum, a man in his sixties, is the only one still seeking something out of life beyond the mere existence his younger counterparts have fallen prey to. And Charley does so with a prostitute, Clara, a girl a fraction of his age who doesn't seem to possess the capability of loving or being loved.
And that is the matter at hand, here. The death of romance--both as a love affair and as the possibility of an aesthetic, or romantic, philosophy of art and literature. Thus it's no surprise to see dark shades of color dominate. Even during daylight hours, the novel retreats to darkened rooms and hideaways. It's reflective of a death of romantic attitudes.
Only at the end, in the very last few pages, is there the flowering of some degree of hope. Charley, in particular, finds a reason to connect with the erstwhile dispassionate and emotionless Clara. And Clara herself seems to open herself up to new possibilities of life. Without spoiling the plot, that is as much as can be said.
As for the novel, overall, it does disappoint. It seems too brittle, as if its surface might easily shatter and take the story with it. That bit of hope at the end, too, seems desperate, ill at ease with the rest of the novel. It only makes sense if you see that lonely streak of red in the lingering sunset as something equally desperate to give light and meaning to life towards the end.
And that is the matter at hand, here. The death of romance--both as a love affair and as the possibility of an aesthetic, or romantic, philosophy of art and literature. Thus it's no surprise to see dark shades of color dominate. Even during daylight hours, the novel retreats to darkened rooms and hideaways. It's reflective of a death of romantic attitudes.
Only at the end, in the very last few pages, is there the flowering of some degree of hope. Charley, in particular, finds a reason to connect with the erstwhile dispassionate and emotionless Clara. And Clara herself seems to open herself up to new possibilities of life. Without spoiling the plot, that is as much as can be said.
As for the novel, overall, it does disappoint. It seems too brittle, as if its surface might easily shatter and take the story with it. That bit of hope at the end, too, seems desperate, ill at ease with the rest of the novel. It only makes sense if you see that lonely streak of red in the lingering sunset as something equally desperate to give light and meaning to life towards the end.