The End of the Affair

I read The End of the Affair in Hong Kong, so I’m afraid I wasn’t quite as focused as I should have been. Frequent pauses to gaze at the staggering view out of my friend’s balcony ensured progress was slow. Yet something about the humidity, and the serenity of the world outside - as ships breezed past the widening bay and the surrounding islands were shrouded in mist - threw this very English novel into sharp relief. The introspective and bitterly self-analytical nature of the narrator, and the passion of which he writes (one that could equally be of hatred or love) seemed to jump off the page into the sultry air, and smack me on the face.

Set in 1940, the intensity of the relationship between the narrator, Maurice Bendrix and Sarah effortless manages to eclipse the ferocious war in a way that hugely interests me. The Blitz was, of course, raging through London at the time, and whilst it plays in important role in the story, it is by no means the main character. It cemented my recent epiphany, realised after reading The Slaves of Solitude, that novels that spring from the ashes of war are not necessarily centred around the war itself. Indeed, at one point Bendrix notes carelessly, “I suppose Germany by this time had invaded the Low Countries…” showing perfectly the all-consuming nature of his affair with Sarah.

Despite Graham Greene being an extremely well-known and prolific author, I have read embarrassingly little of his work – not even Brighton Rock (although my mother did make me read Doctor Fischer of Geneva when I was fairly young – I think I am still traumatised). The End of the Affair is one of those novels that one is unsure as to whether one likes. There is a delicious twist to the story that is immensely satisfying, and yet the heavy debates on Catholicism, as well as the fact the narrator is not hugely likeable deadened my enjoyment somewhat. The knowledge that it is loosely autobiographical, however, piqued my interest. Boldly dedicated to ‘C’, this novel parallels Greene’s own affair with Lady Catherine Watson. As anyone with a remote interest in literature should know, it is a grave mistake to ever assume that the narrator is quite literally the voice of the author. However, it is interesting to note that the main character, Bendrix is a novelist, and comments clearly, and often coldly, on the process of writing. I wondered how similar Greene is to Bendrix, and whether he would really want to expose his soul on the cold pages of a novel, leaving me with the conclusion that Benedrix is like Greene, but is resolutely not Greene.

I found the characters rather fascinating, if not believable. The most likeable character has to be Henry, Sarah’s husband. He is kind and essentially a good man, yet he is dull and rather pathetic. He fulfills the clichéd position of the oblivious husband, and indeed, it seems to be his only role. I also found it difficult to wholly emphasise with Sarah. She is a fully-fledged character yet I found there was a curious two-dimensional quality to her in Bendrix’s narration. It could be that this is an artistic device in itself, she is, after all, full of vitality in her diary entries later on, as she agonises over her faith. Perhaps Greene deliberately ensures that Bendrix’s writings of her are inadequate and flat, reflecting the futility of the writing process, as one can never fully capture life in words. Or maybe he is commenting on the fact no one can every really know another person, something that is echoed in the plotline itself. Either way, it ensures the novel itself, while an excellent and engaging story, and quite amusing at times – seems very much to be written by a writer, if that makes any sense at all.

I am aware that this is not exactly a glowing (or coherent) review. Please do not misunderstand me: I genuinely admire this novel. The passion Bendrix feels for Sarah is tangible in every line, and the questions about life and God that are wrestled with by many of the characters are thought-provoking. However, it is also the kind of novel one needs frequent rests from; rests made all the more pressing by the presence of sunlight dancing on the waves outside the window.