Strange, to be sitting here at five o'clock in the morning, thinking
about Graham Greene, when I've been up all night with a tale of my own.
 
Graham Greene loved his gin, he did.  It's always been easy for me to
trust in a writer who inhales the scent of juniper berries at regular
intervals.
 
Greene did me a service, some years ago, by introducing me to the
notion that a novel can be both popular and literary.  Few have succeeded
so well as he, in that delicate balancing act.  We will miss his example.
 
We will also miss his unerring accuracy for landing in the hot spots on
the troubled surface of this planet.  Who will report to us now, from the
sleazy back-alleys of Asia?  Who will bring us news of suffering in
Latin America?
 
Perhaps, if we're lucky, Robert Stone will get restless, and venture
out in search of some action.
 
Rest in the power and the glory, Graham Greene.  I'll be brave, and carry
on the good fight.  I'll not shed a tear for thee.  I may buy a bottle
of Boodles, though.
 
							--Fiona O.