Graham Greene's last two works of prose fiction are very encouraging. No one can deny Greene's competence in the early work, nor his Tightness in choosing characteristic themes of the times (violence, cauchemar, sex and sin) and treating them in suitable modes (the employment of cinematographic devices, newspaper techniques and popular psychology), but the high estimate of Greene, particularly on the continent (he shares it with Somerset Maugham, it appears), has always raised doubts among his serious English readers. There is the central problem of his obvious commitment to Roman Catholicism which affects the reader; and, it is fair to say, irritates both Catholic and non-Catholic reader. Writing as a Catholic, I should say that the main burden of complaint is the meretricious nature of this involvement. We can admit that Greene can and does present the conditions of salvation and damnation with vivid effectiveness; Pinkie, wandering through the back-streets of Brighton in the early morning, presents us with the sensation and the dilemma: