The End of the Affair

by Graham Greene

‘Of course,’ I said, ‘you know her so much better than I ever did.’ ‘In some ways,’ he said gloomily, and I knew he was thinking of the very ways in which I had known her the best.

The not done things are done every day, Henry. It’s part of modern life.

A cliché with its popular wisdom can sometimes fall through a conversation like a note of doom,

in those years the sense of happiness had been a long while dying under the coming storm.

Poor Henry. But why should I say poor Henry? Didn’t he possess in the end the winning cards—the cards of gentleness, humility and trust?

She was too beautiful to excite me with the idea of accessibility.

So long as one is happy one can endure any discipline: it was unhappiness that broke down the habits of work.

I put my hand under the cloth and laid it on her knee, and her hand came down and held mine in place. I said, ‘It’s a good steak,’ and heard like poetry her reply, ‘It’s the best I’ve ever eaten.’

My passion for Sarah had killed simple lust for ever. Never again would I be able to enjoy a woman without love.

How easily we believe we can slide out of our guilt by a motion of contrition.

‘Can’t you see what hope there’d be, if everybody in the world knew that there was nothing else but what we have here?

‘I don’t need to be converted, Mr Smythe. I believe in nothing as it is. Except now and then.’ ‘It’s the now and thens we have to deal with.’ ‘The odd thing is that those are the moments of hope.’

I was ten minutes late in meeting Maurice and began to be angry so as to meet his anger

While I loved Maurice, I loved Henry, and now I’m what they call good, I don’t love anyone at all.

I had gone to him to rid me of a superstition, but every time I went his fanaticism fixed the superstition deeper.

If you really loved me, I thought, you’d behave like any other injured husband. You’d get angry and your anger would set me free.

I wish I knew a prayer that wasn’t me, me, me. Help me. Let me be happier. Let me die soon. Me, me, me.

I have come to an end of my interest in work now: no one can please me much with praise or hurt me with blame.

it pleased me. For I was a human being to her and not a writer:

The act of sex may be nothing, but when you reach my age you learn that at any time it may prove to be everything.

It was a great injury I did to Sarah when I married her. I know that now.’

‘I’m not against a bit of superstition. It gives people the idea that this world’s not everything.’

I hate this body that enjoyed so much but was inadequate to express what the heart felt,