The Power and the Glory

by Graham Greene

He asked, ‘Where are you going?’ ‘God knows.’ ‘You are all alike, you people. You never learn the truth – that God knows nothing.’ Some tiny scrap of life like a grain of smut went racing across the page in front of him; he pressed his finger down on it and said, ‘You had no money for your fine?’ and watched another smut edge out between the leaves, scurrying

Unlike him, she retained a kind of hope. Hope is an instinct only the reasoning human mind can kill. An animal never knows despair.

Horror and disgust touched him – violence everywhere: was there no end to violence?

It was a mistake one easily made, to think that just because the eyes expressed nothing there was no grief.

He felt an immense envy of all those people who had confessed to him and been absolved.

When a man wakes after a dangerous operation he puts a special value upon the first face he sees as the anaesthetic wears away.

What was the good of confession when you loved the result of your crime?

The priest felt a nervous impatience; he had walked into this trap, the least they could do was to close it quickly, finish everything off.

He wondered whether they would suddenly shoot him down from one of the huts. He had come to the very edge of time: soon there would be no tomorrow and no yesterday, just existence going on for ever. He began to wish he had taken a little more brandy.

He began to walk across the little silent clearing towards the hut: would they shoot him before he got to the entrance? It was like walking a plank blindfold: you didn’t know at what point you would step off into space for ever.

The priest hurriedly whispered the words of conditional absolution, in case, for one second before it crossed the border, the spirit had repented, but it was more likely that it had gone over still seeking its knife, bent on vicarious violence. He prayed: ‘O merciful God, after all he was thinking of me, it was for my sake . . .’ but he prayed without conviction. At the best, it was only one criminal trying to aid the escape of another – whichever way you looked, there wasn’t much merit in either of them.

A small man came out of a side door: he was held up by two policemen, but you could tell that he was doing his best – it was only that his legs were not fully under his control. They paddled him across to the opposite wall; an officer tied a handkerchief round his eyes. Mr Tench thought: But I know him. Good God, one ought to do something. This was like seeing a neighbour shot. The jefe said, ‘What are you waiting for? The air gets into this tooth.’ Of course there was nothing to do. Everything went very quickly like a routine. The officer stepped aside, the rifles went up, and the little man suddenly made jerky movements with his arms. He was trying to say something: what was the phrase they were always supposed to use? That was routine too, but perhaps his mouth was too dry, because nothing came out except a word that sounded like ‘Excuse’. The crash of the rifles shook Mr Tench: they seemed to vibrate inside his own guts: he felt sick and shut his eyes. Then there was a single shot, and opening them again he saw the officer stuffing his gun back into his holster, and the little man was a routine heap beside the wall – something unimportant which had to be cleared away. Two knock-kneed men approached quickly. This was an arena, and the bull was dead, and there was nothing more to wait for any more.