I Don’t Always Read Fiction, But When I Do I Prefer Graham Greene
‘Oooo?’, you’re thinking. ‘Another Graham Greene book?’
Certainly. Orient Express. Told in five parts, Greene takes the reader so perfectly on a journey through the cities and countrysides of Europe, matching the rhythm and tempo of the old train so well. It might be an old book, but take it in two forms; its easy to get into the time period of the late 1930s and its synchronous dialogue allows it to be adapted to the modern day as well. Basically it works. And its a good read and good drama. The story chugs along in the first quarter but ramps up a bit in Vienna. The wheels churn faster and this third part draws the reader in and the story becomes more seductive and consequently, attractive. A bit more glitz a bit more murder. Up to this point, we have a medley of characters with vague ambitions and intentions. Shrouded slightly by mystery, we taste only the accoutrements of who they really are and what they are doing on the train, waiting for the main course. At Vienna we’re treated with a roux of compounding elements that thicken the plot. Crime, collusion, romance and conniving characters that add a bit of genuine drama to the story apropos to the regular gossip. Here we go; onto quatrain Subotica (I’ll help you out here: Belgrade, Serbia).
Its not just the way it carries so smoothly on the tongue or the brain but it’s accompanied by a poetic and profound substance. It has bones. Greene makes you not only think, but feel. Here are some examples, which I found most pleasing and intriguing.:
In describing the journey on the train and the hypnotizing, almost anesthetic properties of the locomotive, he writes, “…in the rushing reverberating express, noise was so regular that it was the equivalent of silence, movement was so continuous that after a while the mind accepted it as stillness.”
He goes on: “A tender light flooded the compartments. It would have been possible for a moment to believe that the sun was the depression of something that loved and suffered for men. Human beings floated like fish in golden water, free from the urge of gravity, flying without wings, transparent, in a glass aquarium. […] They were not imprisoned, for they were not during the hour of dawn were of their imprisonment.”
Every now and then Greene throws in some deeper philosophical views which might even catch the reader off guard. On explaining the thoughts and emotions of one woman, Greene writes: “The world to her was divided into those tho thought and those who felt. […] those who thought forgot; those who felt remembered; they did now owe and they did not lend, they gave hatred or love.” I personally tend to think, and I imagine that I think in the same way that others feel. But reading, here and over the past year, seems to help me feel — in the slightest. Going on more disjointed philosophy: “Asked to estimate his place in literature he said: ‘I take my stand with sanity as opposed to the morbid introspection of [other] writers. Life is a fine thing for the adventurous with a healthy mind in a healthy body’.” To me, its easy to write a negative portrait of the world. Its harder to weave your way through life, maneuvering around all the bullshit, and produce something beautiful and elegantly profound enough to lift up the poorest of souls in hope that there’s a guarantee of some elevated and innocuous future.
And a few other good random ones, based on the depth and beauty of their meaning:
“Suspicion only dishonored the suspicious.”
“…God was a fiction invented by the rich to keep the poor content.”
“‘I will give you rest.’ Death did not give rest, for rest could not exist without the consciousness of rest.”
“An indeterminate sun.”
“The snow whispered at the window.”
Okay, back to it. After all this is a review of sorts.
On page 194, even from a character’s fictional point of view, what has been written stands out and is remarkably true to this day. A revolutionary man who has now been caught post five years escape addresses the soldiers overseeing his court marshal, commenting on their profession and its effects on war, power, and the perpetual nature of the systems that keep corrupt men in power, he states: “You put the small thief in prison, but the big thief lives in a palace.” Its importance should be considered heavily as this passage was written back in 1939. For not much has changed and these feelings of deception and betrayal to remain so fresh. It must certainly mean that any progression we feel we have made simply has not.
Overall, the story and it’s characters reminds me of a Wes Anderson film. A mix of the Darjeeling Limited and The Grand Budapest Hotel. Maybe thats why I liked it so much as I had seen those films previously and likened the story to fit Wes Anderson’s cinematic éclat.
Part five, Constantinople. A la, a jazz quintet playing the final number about the five remaining characters. The train comes to a halt and the story seems to come full circle, yet in a strange and somewhat unfulfilling way it doesn’t. Briefly it seemed as thought some of the most intriguing characters would rendezvous here, but not quite. In the end, they mostly go their separate ways.
Other than that, the book showcases a strong anti-semitism, tries to provide some elevation for women, but mostly just uses them as pawns, and weaves communist ideologies into a real but shriveled tread of hope which ultimately end in despair (and death).
