The Quiet American, by Graham Greene
Latent Book Club Review #2311
The Latent Book Club anaylises Graham Greene’s The Quiet American: a mysterious and compelling cold war era spy novel, dealing with themes of colonialism, proxy politics, love, jealousy and melancholy; a work which remains highly relevant today, but falls slightly short of Greene’s best.
The Latent Book Club holds Graham Greene in high esteem. His best work surely must be Our Man in Havana, with Monsignor Quixote and Brighton Rock coming in closely behind. Although this book, perhaps more than the others, is more resonant: it forces one into a state of introspection, and global concern, which on occasion, great literature should.
The Quiet American is quite a mournful book in tone. It was written, at a particularly depressing period in Greene’s (1904 - 1991) life . He and his wife were divorced. He loved Vietnam, where he travelled as a Journalist. He seemed to feel genuine empathy towards the country and its people who were, at the time, being pushed between French Colonialism on the one hand, and Viet Minh inspired communism on the other. The instability in the political mix was, in part, a result of the first Indochina war in the early 1950s, when this novel is set. This added into that milieu a layer of proxy war: American assistance (McCarthyism) supported the status quo, whereas state sponsored communism (China USSR) supported change.
These are the questions at the core of the novel: how can one remain moral in a time of violence? What responsibilities do jaded colonialists have, against high handed international intervention in domestic affairs? And - most pointedly for today’s audience perhaps, particularly here in Australia, what of self determination for a nation’s Indigenous people?
Vietnam’s internal conflict - how to establish itself; what kind of nation it wants to be - and the concomitant destabilsation that goes along with such revolutionary ideas, cleverly mirrors the questions at the core of the novel. How can one remain moral in a time of violence? What responsibilities do jaded colonialists have, against high handed international intervention in domestic affairs? And - most pointedly for today’s audience perhaps, particularly here in Australia, what of self determination for a nation’s Indigenous people?
The book cannot hope to answer these questions but the fact that they persist in the reader after the final page is turned is a testament to the power of Greene’s writing.
Fowler, the protagonist, is thrown into that world, undergoing his own hero’s journey. A surrogate for Greene himself, Fowler is a battle-hardened 50 year old journalist. He is cynical and tired, he is somewhat reactionary, an atheist, and cautious. He loves Vietnam, but has capitalised on his status as a foreign journalist to forge a somewhat exploitative relationship with a local girl, Phuong, who is beautiful and young.
Fowler’s antagonist is Pyle, a young American foreign attache, that reeks of things Fowler is opposed to: American confidence, the optimism of a new world. Even Pyle’s haircut (the crew cut) is observed sardonically by Fowler as a symptom of Pyle’s naiveté.
Over the course of the novel Pyle is exploited by American theories relating to a ‘Third Force’ (a way between French Imperialism on the one hand and Communism on the other). He is encouraged to support General The, who evidently is pro-west in generating a solution to this problem. To a cynical mind this sounds remarkably like supporting a military dictatorship. Indeed, South Vietnam would go on to suffer a similar fate some years later - which would lead to disastrous results.
Pyles naïveté and painful earnestness is contrasted with Fowlers end-of-the-barrel cynicism and these two make perfect antagonists. Although neither of them are physically hostile to one another, their resentments dwell within the characters.
The plot jumps around in time and starts with a dead Pyle. We are left to put together Fowler’s involvement in his death, which unfolds throughout the rest of the book. Right at the start, the police suspect Fowler’s involvement in Pyle’s death, and Fowler is interviewed repeatedly by a local police inspector. The inspector dogs Fowler throughout the novel, and repeatedly questions him at his home, attempting to elicit what appears to be a confession, despite the inspector’s protestations to the contrary. The inevitable comparison is to Porfiry Petrovich in Crime and Punishment, who dogs a guilty Raskalnikov in the same manner.
Fowler is the somewhat unreliable narrator of the novel, and has at his heart a moral dilemma. As he unpacks the dilemma, he tries to stay aloof, and fails. As an illustration of Fowler’s detachment from the land in which he lives, and from his own moral failings, he views himself not as a correspondent, but as a ‘reporter’ in the sense of dispassionately describing the facts, without becoming involved in thiem. A repeated theme in the book is whether this is possible. Greene suggests it is not.
Fowler manipulates the people he knows in Vietnam with the swagger of an imperialist; a person who enjoys the spoils of a foreign country that he ultimately views himself superior to.
Indeed, Fowler is far more involved than he likes to suggest, and ultimately picks a side (the Vietnamese). But there is something duplicitous about his doing so, as he continues to manipulate Phuong, and the people he knows in Vietnam with the swagger of an imperialist; a person who enjoys the spoils of a foreign country, but still sees his nationhood as superior to it.
Pyle falls in love with Phuong and joins Fowler at the front line of the war, from which he is reporting, at great personal risk, to tell Fowler he loves her and is going to convince her to leave him. Fowler initially dismisses this as absurd.
The pair end up making a return trip together, but Fowler’s car has been drained of petrol by the Viet Minh. They are forced to take shelter together in a guarded watch tower overnight, with their own lives, and the lives of the guards at risk. The unthinkable happens and the tower is assaulted by the Viet Minh. Fowler and Pyle narrowly escape, but their presence is a death sentence for the guards, whom Fowler has to listen to as they die. Fowler is badly injured in the escape and Pyle leaves him to get assistance. He returns, saving his life.
Phuong does leave Fowler for Pyle. Although Fowler tells Phuong that his wife has promised him a divorce, really the letter he receives in response to him asking for one is a refusal. Pyle exposes this lie to Phuong, who goes on to see Pyle as someone with a future, and Fowler as someone with none. She moves out from Fowler’s life, which sends him into a slough of despair.
This sets up the ultimate confrontation in the book. One of Fowler’s old informants is highly concerned about Pyle’s involvement in the Third Force and inquires with Fowler as to what to do about getting the local insurgents to take car of him. Fowler is conflicted - he has had his life saved by Pyle, but he has had Phuong stolen by him. Furthermore, Pyle’s involvement with the third force has turned deadly, as a bombing operation Pyle established was a failure, maiming and killing innocent civilians instead of hitting any real targets. It is probably the latter that pushes him over the edge.
Fowler sets Pyle up to be killed. When this occurs, he is very conflicted, and can’t bear to think of what is about to happen to his friend and enemy. To absolve himself of a degree of responsibility, Fowler gives Pyle several ‘get outs’ that he doesn’t take.
It is this fundamental conflict that lead’s to the book’s resolution, and Phuong’s ultimate reunion with Fowler.
In a telling end, Fowler is untroubled by informing on his erstwhile friend and saviour, stating that he is not concerned with history; a comment entirely congruent with Fowler’s character, but one that as (despite his protestations) a moralist, informs the reader that he is trying to convince himself as much of that fact as us. Phuong contemplates a new life in England, but conflates it with a potential life in America. The question of whether her needs will be fulfilled, is a tense and sobering one.
Overall
This short book is a great read, and is often lauded as being remarkably prophetic of the American involvement in Vietnam. While it was probably not prophetic, it can be read that way in hindsight. That said, it pointed out the themes that continued to dominate South East Asia in the coming decades, and indeed still do to a certain extent. In that sense it can be read and still seems very fresh.
The moralising and questioning that are symptomatic of Greene’s work are all here. And if you like moral questions there are ones to unpack aplenty for its slim size. In that respect alone, it is a worthy read.
Finally, The Quiet American does paint Vietnam as a wondrous, and beautiful country - somewhere Greene clearly loved.
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Booker Prize Winner Iris Murdoch’s The Sea, The Sea
Booker Prize Winner Kazuo Ishiguro’s The Remains of The Day ,
Pulitzer Prize and Nobel Prize for Literature winner Saul Bellow’s Humboldt’s Gift,
Breakout Australian Novelist Amy Taylor’s Search History
Miles Franklin Award Nominee Robbie Arnott’s Limberlost
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