A fascinating book that reminded me a bit of The Lotus Eaters. (In fact, given the chronology I would think that The Lotus Eaters is probably inspired in some ways by The Quiet American.) It also made me wonder what it must have been like to hang out in the storied lobby of the Continental hotel in Saigon during the chaotic days of the early 60s, and, even more generically, what it must have been like to try to stay in touch with people in the days before email and cell phones.

The title of the book is an interesting paradox, and the setting of the book is at a time when the phrase was just becoming a paradox. While US GI’s earned a reputation as loud friendly types in World War 2, it was (it seems to me) Vietnam that really gave the US a world reputation for projecting its presence and influence outside of its borders in a way that was anything but quiet. So the idea of a quiet, unassuming, mousy type who happens to be an American poking around in Vietnam is, just from the beginning, a bit surprising and frames the book in an interesting way.

Indeed, framing is an important device not just on the title page, but continuing through to page 1, where we’re immediately taken to, as it were, the conclusion of the story. We don’t know any of the characters or why they react the way they do to the facts on the ground, and perhaps the idea here is to disorient the reader in the same way that someone living in Vietnam at the time might be disoriented by a bombing, a roadside ambush, or some other traumatic event. Or perhaps the idea is to imitate the way that the US was itself bumbling in to the conclusion of a story (that is, the French colonial experience in Vietnam) in which it really didn’t belong. In any case, the shape of the story and its characters become clearer as the book progresses, but we are constantly shifting forward and backward in time - and while that is a bit confusing, it is also, I think, challenging in an interesting way, and disorienting in a way that actually makes sense.

The characters are sharply drawn - with Pyle and Fowler obviously taking center stage. Fowler is the archetype of the grizzled, cynical reporter who has seen it all. Pyle is the wet-behind-the-ears earnest ideologue who is just so eager to try out his ideas, never mind the consequences. What is interesting is Phuong, who gets virtually no speaking parts and is viewed, variably, as a delicate flower or a comfortable lover - but who is also, clearly, a complicated character who has her own motivations and feelings. Her inner mind is obscured from the reader, and as far as that goes I’m of two minds: on the one hand I think that very much reflects the perspective of Pyle and Fowler (who see her as an object of their own desires, rather than as a peron of her own right) - and by symbolic extension, it reflects the Western world’s attitude towards Veitnam. On the other hand, I wonder if this obscurity is just a raw reflection of Greene’s own blind spots.

In any case - The Quiet American is really a wonderfully compact work, a marvelous exploration in fiction of the weighty problems of nationalism, ideology, colonialism.