I have traveled to Greeneland—the land so-called to describe the world Graham
Greene wrote of—at least thirteen times, but lately I have been more interested in
reading travel books about this place than in going there. Perhaps this is because I
read a lot of his books when I was younger and have tended to agree with Martin
Amis that Greene is a writer you think profound when young but, when older,
you’re not so sure the seeming profundities weren’t platitudes.
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