[Graham Greene's Monsignor Quixote is] a curious little book, which reminds one, unpromisingly, of so many approximate models. Quaint and ingenuous priest, lusty and Communist mayor, set down together among Spain's dusty roads and hostelries—such an odd couple, whatever in the world will they get up to? Except that of course you know what they will get up to, these two good ole' boys together, because not only has Giovanni Guareschi long ago identified the two principal roles in his resistably heartwarming Don Camillo, but the theme has been beaten within an inch of its life by too many others, has it not?
Well, yes, I would say. I don't think Graham Greene really wins out over his rusting dramatis personae with any sureness, not even when their story's over. What can he do with these two bearers of such familiar burdens? St. Francis de Sales and Karl Marx, the Bible and the Manifesto? It is sobering news that, as well, our priest is now closely identified with the Knight of the Sorrowful Countenance ("How can he be descended from a fictional character?", asks his bishop, thereby instantly earning a minor commission among Greene's legions of the quasi-damned), and our Mayor is nicknamed Sancho, and their ancient second-hand car is Rocinante, and a faithful housekeeper is intermittently Dulcinea….
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