Well, that’s a dumb joke.
Only 3 people will get it.
And they won’t even laugh.
Trust me, Scobie will do.
Just Scobie. One “o.”
I’ve been growing my Greenery lately:
The Heart of the Matter.
A really fine novel.
You should read it, too.
It’s a climatological event, filled with heat, humidity and sweat.
A Catholic cop in a British colony on the west coast of Africa.
He’s trapped in a love triangle.
(More heat and sweat please. Claustrophobia, too.)
Or rather he’s trapped in a triangle.
Because love characterizes only part of it.
Love is love here at this point in the beginning.
But love is not love there at that edge of the end.
Love surges in all manner of ways.
It gushes as passion.
Swells as romance.
Rolls as love.
Then calmly glides as responsibility.
It looks like a metal sheet seen from a great distance.
When that happens, responsibility starts to chafe and confine.
Then love and responsibility seep into pity.
And pity is rank and nasty.
Just ask Shakespeare.
An unlikely ally in Greene’s depiction of the horrors of love and pity.
Scobie is unable to square love of his mistress.
With love of God.
With pity for his wife.
And Scobie self-drowns in eternal damnation in the end.
the heart of the matter in under…