Essentially, this is only of interest to the most die-hard of Greene’s readership, who must have every scrap of paper written about the author despite its quality, which makes Seeds of Fiction a crowing disappointment.
My suite had a balcony overlooking the square and the Municipal Theatre. The hotel has a central open courtyard for breakfast dining. Wrought iron chairs. Glass-topped tables with bamboo place mats. A small fountain. Lacy white spheres hanging from spindly branches. It was easy to imagine Greene at work here, too, under the trees.