A Graham Greene satire from
the halcyon days of Fulgencio
Batista is not, necessarily,
the likeliest interpretation
of the present charade - but
why not? Its foully flamboy-
ant polo club and expense ac-
count posh are so well mimed
in our sumptuously corrupted
epoch, that its merry premise
of prospering by pure falsity
needs scarcely to be stated.
Yes, but any playful allusion
subsists on such a stretch of
mirth that Our Man in Havana
only leaps to mind as sorely
missed in kilt-ridden times.
Graham Greene
Our Man in Havana
Heinemann, 1958©
Fernando Kodiak
Tom Bird
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