On May 5, 1975, I had an awful experience which I am thankful never occurred in the Common World. I had sent a love scene in a new novel to my secretary to make a draft, but her draft was full of gaps--that was only tiresome. What was awful was that, as I read the scene aloud to the woman I loved, I realized how false it was, how sentimental, how permissive in the wrong way.

She too knew how bad it was and that made me angry. I threw it away. 'How can I read it to you,' I demanded, 'if you interrupt and criticize? It's only a draft, after all.' But I knew that the whole book was hopeless.

I said, 'If only I could die before the book is published. It's got to be published to earn money for the family.'

The thought of Russian roulette came to me. Had I recently bought a revolver or was that a dream?

My mistress tried to comfort me but it only made things worse.

SOURCE: A World of My Own: a Dream Diary by Graham Greene, p.76

EDITOR'S NOTE

When Greene tells dreams, his dry humor usually creeps in at the end. Here it begins in Line One; he's thankful that he's never written a bad first draft! After all, if he ever had, he'd have to kill himself.

--Chris Wayan

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