In the firmament of contemporary international letters, there are a few select names which seem to trail clouds of glory everywhere they go. For literate folk around the world—even for literate folk who have never read a word of their writings—the names of such authors as Calvino and Borges have much the same iconic quality that names like Garbo and Gable continue to have for old-movie enthusiasts. As in the case of Hollywood stardom, furthermore, the extraordinary fame of these writers often has as much to do with non-aesthetic factors—among them personality, politics, public relations, and sheer serendipity—as with the actual breadth of their talents and the artistic value of their achievements.

In the English-speaking world, there is no one who belongs to this exclusive circle of authors more surely than Graham Greene; and that he, of all the English-language writers in his generation, should have achieved such eminence can only be described as remarkable. Now in his mid-eighties, Greene first attained a degree of celebrity, more than half a century ago, as an author of best-selling thrillers; if he was respected at all, it was not for his artistry but for his productivity, his ability to concoct entertaining light narratives, and his impressive sales figures. The story of how this young author of thrillers developed an international reputation as one of the great writers of his time cannot help being a most instructive one—instructive, that is, in what it can tell us about the twentieth-century art of