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3.89 AVERAGE
3.89 AVERAGE
DNF 35%. I might consider trying this one again later but I just couldn't suffer through it right now....
Greene's masterpiece. The nameless whiskey priest represents all of our internal struggles and self-doubt. Greene takes readers to Tabasco during a time of turmoil for the Mexican people of this state and it feels real. The vultures seek prey, the Redshirts seek prey and the citizens of Tabasco seek refuge. The development of characters and how they intersect is indication of Graham's master storytelling abilities. The lieutenant's gestures towards the priest are touching and heartbreaking. The final scene is a reminder that Greene writes about humanity at its most vulnerable and at its most proud. Bravo.
Beautifully written, beautifully plotted. Sad, tense, poetic, relentless and richly human. Loved it.
One of my top ten books. I first read this as a teenager and enjoyed it. 30 years later I've returned it and took far more away this time.
Greene's examination of the human condition, of Mexican politics and climate, of the Christian religion and of secularism is compelling and honest. My favourite quote from the book however is this: "it was too easy to die for what was good or beautiful, for home or children or a civilisation -- it needed a God to die for the half-hearted and the corrupt."
One of my top ten books. I first read this as a teenager and enjoyed it. 30 years later I've returned it and took far more away this time.
Greene's examination of the human condition, of Mexican politics and climate, of the Christian religion and of secularism is compelling and honest. My favourite quote from the book however is this: "it was too easy to die for what was good or beautiful, for home or children or a civilisation -- it needed a God to die for the half-hearted and the corrupt."
dark
emotional
reflective
slow-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
Plot
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Yes
Very good exploration of themes embedded in Catholic beliefs, guilt, sacrifice, morality, faith, right and wrong. Rarely preachy, and at times gut-wrenching, this is a book that under the surface confronts us with some of our greatest fears and weaknesses, regardless of faith.
This book adeptly explores issues of sin and atonement. Through the tale of the Whiskey Priest, Greene celebrates faith in God and condemns faith in humanity. I give it four stars only because Graham Greene's style is not my favorite.
challenging
dark
emotional
hopeful
reflective
medium-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
A mix
Strong character development:
Complicated
Loveable characters:
Yes
Diverse cast of characters:
Yes
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Yes
I thought this was a great concept, but the ending fell flat for me. Predicable and too much conversation.
An oldie that I have somehow missed.
What a lovely, absurd, spiritual journey the whisky priest takes in this narrative. He is a proud man laid low -- a beggar and a wanderer. During this journey he comes to understand what he thought he knew all along. The whisky priest is so human, and when juxtaposed with the story of the martyred Juan we see how deeply flawed we all are. I will think about this one for a long time.
Favorite quotes:
p.97
"Man was so limited he hadn't even the ingenuity to invent a new vice: the animals knew as much. It was for this world that Christ had died; the more evil you saw and heard about you, the greater glory lay around the death. It was too easy to die for what was good or beautiful, for home or children or a civilization -- it needed a God to die for the half-hearted and the corrupt."
p. 154-155
"Did she expect a miracle? and if she did, why should it not be granted her, the priest wondered? Faith, one was told, could move mountains, and here was faith -- faith in the spittle that healed the blind man and the voice that raised the dead. The evening star was out: it hung low down over the edge of the plateau -- it looked as if it was within reach -- and a small hot wind stirred. The priest found himself watching the child for some movement. When none came, it was as if God had missed an opportunity. The woman sat down, and taking a lump of sugar from her bundle began to eat, and the child lay quietly at the foot of the cross. Why, after all, should we expect God to punish the innocent with more life?"
What a lovely, absurd, spiritual journey the whisky priest takes in this narrative. He is a proud man laid low -- a beggar and a wanderer. During this journey he comes to understand what he thought he knew all along. The whisky priest is so human, and when juxtaposed with the story of the martyred Juan we see how deeply flawed we all are. I will think about this one for a long time.
Favorite quotes:
p.97
"Man was so limited he hadn't even the ingenuity to invent a new vice: the animals knew as much. It was for this world that Christ had died; the more evil you saw and heard about you, the greater glory lay around the death. It was too easy to die for what was good or beautiful, for home or children or a civilization -- it needed a God to die for the half-hearted and the corrupt."
p. 154-155
"Did she expect a miracle? and if she did, why should it not be granted her, the priest wondered? Faith, one was told, could move mountains, and here was faith -- faith in the spittle that healed the blind man and the voice that raised the dead. The evening star was out: it hung low down over the edge of the plateau -- it looked as if it was within reach -- and a small hot wind stirred. The priest found himself watching the child for some movement. When none came, it was as if God had missed an opportunity. The woman sat down, and taking a lump of sugar from her bundle began to eat, and the child lay quietly at the foot of the cross. Why, after all, should we expect God to punish the innocent with more life?"
I last read The Power and the Glory some years ago, and it’s long been on my list to re-read. I remembered it as a very powerful, beautiful novel, but reading it again I was overwhelmed by what an amazing book it is. Graham Greene’s writing is precise and perfect, every word intentional and every passage full of layers of meaning. As a novel, I find it to be a less despairing companion to Silence and a somewhat less hopeful companion to Les Misérables (the hope is there in The Power and the Glory, certainly, but it’s not tied up as neatly, and the protagonist is complex in different ways from Jean Valjean).
The novel opens with a clear indication that there won’t be anything to numb the pain of what we’re about to read, as we see a dentist stumbling toward a shipment of ether, but too forgetful to even hold on to that one detail. Then we’re introduced to the lieutenant, who (with ironic, Javert-like religious obsession) pursues his unnamed quarry through the purgatorial landscape of revolutionary Mexico, and we the readers repeatedly confront deep questions about the purpose of human life. On the immediate surface, the narrative invites us into a kind of voyeuristic observing of people in difficult circumstances. Why are we peeking in at people at their ugliest, their weakest . . . and is there nothing we can do but passively watch?
Going a bit deeper, the story makes us ponder what it means to truly love people—all people, not just those who are easy to love or whom we are obligated to love. We might respond to people’s requests, but is it possible that we could actually minister to people with none of our heart and mind involved? This is what the priest wrestles with, as he looks back over his years in exile and realizes that he has done so little, and nothing with his whole heart. The novel holds up an ideal of martyrdom and sainthood, but it also suggests that it’s all the result of small choice to deny oneself and live for people who by any human standard are not worth serving. “It was too easy to die for what was good or beautiful,” the priest thinks, “for home or children or a civilisation—it needed a God to die for the half-hearted and the corrupt.” But that realization leads to the thoughts that trouble the priest for the rest of the book: if only God can die for all humans, then what can I, with all my flaws, possibly do?
When the priest finally reaches his conclusion, there’s a quietness, as though the world holds its breath, respecting what he is about to do, and giving space for his final dialogues with the lieutenant. The priest looks over the past years and regrets how easy it would have been to have been a saint worthy of martyrdom. It’s a moment that should break every reader’s heart, as we all think the same: Why didn’t I choose to do more good, just small acts of love and service, when I had the chance? What kept me from being saintly?
The final chapter takes us back to all the people we met along the way, revealing that the life we least expected to change is the one that is most profoundly affected by the priest—and at just that moment, we see that the story will continue. There is never a “last priest,” and the most hellish landscape is never left without a witness of the truth.
The Power and the Glory is a very special novel, and one of my very favorites. As soon as I finished reading it, I was eager to read it again.
The novel opens with a clear indication that there won’t be anything to numb the pain of what we’re about to read, as we see a dentist stumbling toward a shipment of ether, but too forgetful to even hold on to that one detail. Then we’re introduced to the lieutenant, who (with ironic, Javert-like religious obsession) pursues his unnamed quarry through the purgatorial landscape of revolutionary Mexico, and we the readers repeatedly confront deep questions about the purpose of human life. On the immediate surface, the narrative invites us into a kind of voyeuristic observing of people in difficult circumstances. Why are we peeking in at people at their ugliest, their weakest . . . and is there nothing we can do but passively watch?
Going a bit deeper, the story makes us ponder what it means to truly love people—all people, not just those who are easy to love or whom we are obligated to love. We might respond to people’s requests, but is it possible that we could actually minister to people with none of our heart and mind involved? This is what the priest wrestles with, as he looks back over his years in exile and realizes that he has done so little, and nothing with his whole heart. The novel holds up an ideal of martyrdom and sainthood, but it also suggests that it’s all the result of small choice to deny oneself and live for people who by any human standard are not worth serving. “It was too easy to die for what was good or beautiful,” the priest thinks, “for home or children or a civilisation—it needed a God to die for the half-hearted and the corrupt.” But that realization leads to the thoughts that trouble the priest for the rest of the book: if only God can die for all humans, then what can I, with all my flaws, possibly do?
When the priest finally reaches his conclusion, there’s a quietness, as though the world holds its breath, respecting what he is about to do, and giving space for his final dialogues with the lieutenant. The priest looks over the past years and regrets how easy it would have been to have been a saint worthy of martyrdom. It’s a moment that should break every reader’s heart, as we all think the same: Why didn’t I choose to do more good, just small acts of love and service, when I had the chance? What kept me from being saintly?
The final chapter takes us back to all the people we met along the way, revealing that the life we least expected to change is the one that is most profoundly affected by the priest—and at just that moment, we see that the story will continue. There is never a “last priest,” and the most hellish landscape is never left without a witness of the truth.
The Power and the Glory is a very special novel, and one of my very favorites. As soon as I finished reading it, I was eager to read it again.