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In his introduction to these forty stories, Graham Greene says that "the short story for the novelist is often a form of escape—escape from having to live with another character for years on end...." Anyone who so much as opens this collection will be delighted to insist that the author's escape is the reader's good fortune.
Including the stories originally published in the separate volumes May We Borrow Your Husband?, A Sense of Reality, and Twenty-One Stories, Collected Stories also prints for the first time in book form three other stories, "The Blessing," "Church Militant," and "Dear Dr. Falkenheim." Mr. Greene's own favorites are four: "I believe I have never written anything better than 'The Destructors,' 'A Chance for Mr. Lever,' 'Under the Garden,' 'Cheap in August.'" Any reader will be free to concur or make his own choice. In any case he is likely to take respectful issue with Mr. Greene's statement that he is "a novelist who has happened to write short stories" and insist that he is the complete master of both forms.
1929 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1986
’Did you find anything special?’ Blackie asked.
T nodded. ‘Come over here,’ he said, ‘and look.’ Out of both pockets he drew bundles of pound notes. ‘Old Misery’s savings,’ he said. ‘Mike ripped out the mattress, but he missed them.’
‘What are you going to do? Share them?”
‘We aren’t thieves,’ T said. ‘Nobody’s going to steal anything from this house. I kept these for you and me - a celebration.’ He knelt down on the floor and counted them out - there were seventy in all. ‘We’ll burn them,’ he said, ‘one by one’ and taking it in turns they held a note upwards and lit the top corner, so that the flame burnt slowly towards their fingers. The grey ash floated above them and fell on their heads like age. ‘I’d like to see Ol Misery’s face when we are through,’ T said.
‘You hate him a lot?’ Black asked.
‘Of course I don't hate him,’ T said. ‘There’d be no fun if I hated him.’ The last burning note illuminated his brooding face. ‘All this hate and love,’ he said, ‘it’s soft, it’s hooey. There’s only things, Blackie,’ and he looked round the room crowded with unfamiliar shadows of half things, broken things, former things. ‘I’ll race you home, Blackie,’ he said.