Mr. T. S. Eliot wrote so brillant an essay on Collins and Dickens in 1927 that a biographer of Collins tells us a legend that the novelist's name had been entirely forgotten until the essay exhumed him. But Wilkie Collins and Dickens must be remembered as a prediction of a quite original novelist's debut. For Mr. Eliot disapproved of the contemporary novels; because of their loss of melodrama and their indulgence in everyday psychology-" the best novels were thrilling." It was violence and suspence (treasures of the film and le roman policier) that the new writer. Mr. Graham Greene re-introduced in the modern serious fiction. He, as a critic, rescued Henry James from the ivory tower which had been built of ready-made criticisms on the novelist, whose name was very delicately mentioned at the end of the essay by Mr. Eliot. The masters of Victorian novels, Dickens or Collins, for instance, were happy enough to depend upon the real society. They could mingle their music with the noises of the concrete world. Believing in their contemporary common sense, optimistic Christianity, they need not have sought after the thorough study of the significance made by complicated dynamism in the thrilling fiction. The writers in our time, however, cannot help pursuing deeper and deeper. It is their unhappy glory. Some knowledge of this glorious danger made writers of the twenties clear it; they receded and built their imposing silent static structures: Ulysses, To the Lighthouse, Point Counter Point. Indeed they were heroic. But Mr. Greene was more heroic, as he decided to be a pioneer in the modern melodrama, which demands terrible difficulty to manage both story and significance at the same time. To speak strictly, though he was and is a fine writer of the up-to-date human agony tales with exciting manners, unfortunately Mr. Greene has failed nearly always. The Heart of the Matter, which has reputation as his best novel, is not his best, I think. Three years after the publication, Mr. Walter Allen, who had admired enthusiastically Mr. Greene's vivid and cinematic style, reproached this novel only with the Audenesque style. It is interesting that he took an instance, which was Wilson's entrance on the stage in the first chapter, as Wilson is unreasonably recognized as an unimportant support's role by the leading critics including Mr. Allen himself. He might have vaguely felt that the novelist set a pattern of co-ordinate relation between Scobie, a police-officer who didn't like poetry, and Wilson, a detective who passionately liked romantic poetry. In spite of this brilliant preparatory situation, Mr. Greene didn't, or couldn't research this pattern in the latter half of the novel, perhaps owing to metaphysical or theological helplessness and his pre-eminence as a story-teller. Then The Heart of the Matter has, in the first time in his literary career, the hunter without positive significance, and the novel's theme-"pity"-presents us very ambiguous and faint meaning. The writer was not successful towards the end of The End of the Affair, too. But I am not lamentable about these failures, as I may expect that he will write a best novel which is thrilling not only in story-telling but in architecture of ideality and that he will be a Dostoievsky in our time.
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