A Discreet Touch of Genius: On Reading The Power and the Glory

Graham Greene is a skilled storyteller.
Mario Vargas Llosa

The book (The Power and the Glory) gives me more satisfaction than any other I have written.
Graham Greene

Genius is a promontory jutting out into the infinite.
Victor Hugo



I’m going through a phase where I’m revisiting novels I first read in the 1980s—La tía Julia y el escribidor; Haroun and the Sea of Stories; Siddartha; The Princess Bride; and Crónica de una muerte anunciada, among others. I’m not completely certain as to why I’m spending time with these old friends again, but I suspect it’s because it was around then, some twenty years ago, that I started to dream about writing novels and, instinctively, I was searching for good models.

I had chosen Graham Greene’s The Power and the Glory in preparation for writing my first novel—which ended up a failed venture, the clumsy work of an apprentice. During the mid to late 80s, I wasn’t aware of literary models that fit my particular outlook as U.S. Latino and Latina writers had yet to break through in publishing. And since I wanted to see how a writer, who wrote in English, dealt with a novel set in Latin America, I selected Greene’s most highly regarded work to see what I could learn.

But at the time—with scant knowledge of the writing craft—I failed to appreciate fully the genius behind this work. In my most recent reading, however, upon finishing the last page I was in awe of Greene’s mastery over his narrative.

The Power and the Glory is set in México, during the presidency of Plutarco Elías Calles who, under the pretext of ending obscurantism, persecuted the Catholic Church and its clergy.

What most stunned me during this reading is Greene’s inclusion of an ingenious device: a pamphlet on Catholic martyrs—a piece of forbidden literature, printed clandestinely in México City and distributed throughout the country—that a woman reads to her three children. The two daughters—ages 6 and 10—listen attentively to the decidedly inflated tales of bravery and sacrifice of future Mexican saints, priests who went on to become martyrs of the Cristero War. The son, however, at age 14, has adopted the government’s scorn toward the Church, and he wishes, in silence, without intending to denounce his mother’s subversion, that the authorities had been competent enough to confiscate the pamphlets before these reached his house.

As the mother reads out loud, the daughters interrupt her with questions about the two priests that are known to them. The first priest, fearing for his life, saved himself from certain martyrdom by renouncing the priesthood and marrying a local woman. The second priest, the “Whiskey Priest,” is the protagonist of the story. Living on the run, he had once taken refuge in the home of the pamphlet family, drinking brandy the entire night he spent there while hiding from the authorities.

When the girls ask their mother whether these priests were also martyrs, the mother categorically condemns the first one for betraying his vows; but she leaves open the possibility for the Whiskey Priest to join the glorified ranks of future saints. But shortly after her pronouncement, once the children are asleep, she confides to her husband that a priest that seeks refuge in alcohol is unworthy of a sanctified death.

The family appears in three segments of the novel: once early on, and the second time midway through the first half. Other than equating the tension between the mother and her adolescent boy to that between faith and the Mexican government’s version of reason, the reader is at a loss with respect to how the family fits into the plot.

But in their third appearance, which takes place at the end of The Power and the Glory, the family fulfills its literary purpose, and formidably. The execution of the nameless whiskey priest is first seen from the point of view of Mr. Tench—an English dentist who’s a lost soul, having lived for many years in a country he can’t even begin to understand. Observing the priest’s death from far away, through the dentist’s eyes, the protagonist is a rag doll that jerks about wildly under the impact of the firing squad’s bullets. Thus, from this point of view, the death of the priest is devoid of glory or redemption.

But in the scene that follows, the mother reads out loud the execution of the saintly priest of the forbidden pamphlet. The sisters, having listened to virtually identical scenes from the other pamphlets, and many times, have fallen asleep. But the boy—who had also witnessed the execution of the whiskey priest, earlier that day—has now cast aside his cynicism. For the first time, he listens with reverence to the tale of a fictional martyr as the forbidden pamphlet narrates the last thoughts of the brave and noble priest who never, throughout his entire existence, wavered in his faith.

And we, the readers of The Power and the Glory, transfer these thoughts onto the pathetic rag doll whose execution we observed earlier, and we then accept the Whiskey Priest, with all his imperfections, as worthy of sainthood.

So it is through the inclusion of the pamphlet—that discreet touch of genius—that the central character finds redemption, and this also allows Graham Greene to give The Power and the Glory its breathtaking ending.

The Possible Paths of Panamá’s Voldemort—Or, Is General Manuel Antonio Noriega Going to France?

Noriega es nuestro Voldemort.
Ana Alfaro


A French cell is bound to be more humane than confinement in Azkaban.

That’s what I’d be thinking if I were General Manuel Antonio Noriega and my bid to return to my homeland, where I’d sit on a rocking chair with a grandchild on each knee and assume the role of elder statesman—as his attorneys suggested during his extradition hearings—had failed.

At least in France he wouldn’t have dementors hovering nearby, ready to inhale his soul.

I’ve borrowed the metaphor of General Noriega as Voldemort from Ana Alfaro, the restaurant and food critic for La Prensa. She is that newspaper’s most literate writer. Her reviews of local restaurants are always witty, original, and well crafted—a difficult thing to do when week after week you write about the same topic. But Ms. Alfaro seems to have a limitless arsenal of metaphors and similes regarding the experience of eating out.

And, in addition to her food columns, Ms. Alfaro publishes short essays, on a wide range of topics, in Mosaico, the literary and cultural supplement of La Prensa. And not too long ago, she wrote a piece on Noriega’s possible return to Panamá. It was in that article that she made an intriguing statement: “Noriega is our Voldemort.”

I find that metaphor both striking and appropriate.

Manuel Antonio Noriega, like Voldemort, became all-powerful and, as is the case with all dictators, ruled through fear. And although the General wrapped himself in the Panamanian flag during his reign, posing as a nationalist, the only interest he served was his own—again, like Voldemort.

But in spite of Noriega being confined to a Miami prison for seventeen years—that is, like Voldemort he ceased to be a physical presence for a decade and a half—he still has considerable influence in this country.

When the prospect first surfaced that Noriega might be extradited to France—as opposed to Panamá, where he faces two twenty-year sentences for the deaths of several opponents—there was a clamor of outrage from some of the victims’ families.

But other family members are saying that if Noriega came to Panamá, they believe that they would not see justice.

And that’s because—if we accept the metaphor that Noriega is Panamá’s Voldemort—there are still plenty of Death-eaters around; and some of them, out of an odd sense of loyalty, or simply perhaps because they fear the man, would once again start doing their master’s bidding. Thus, if Noriega came back to Panamá, before long before he’d be set free.

The “Death-eaters” would see to it.

Do many “Death-eaters” still remain?

Definitely. What’s more, some occupy positions of power. One just needs to look at the resumes of the members of President Martin Torrijos’s cabinet. Several current ministers and vice-ministers served—and with great honor—under the General.

These “Death-eaters” may not be performing cartwheels over their former master’s return. In fact, they must certainly be troubled over the prospect of his reemergence—particularly in light of what the former head of Panamá’s G2, the defunct army’s secret service, knows about them.

And because of this, to borrow a metaphor from American football, it’s not surprising that the offices of Panamá’s Foreign Ministry fumbled the ball—and it’s obvious that the fumble was intentional—to allow the clock to run out on requesting, in the appropriate legal format, You-Know-Who’s extradition to Panamá.

Manuel Antonio Noriega’s sojourn in a French prison is, in my estimation, in Panamá’s best interest. If the General should come back to his homeland, his former followers may renew their allegiance to him. And, unfortunately, there’s not a Dumbledore—a commanding opponent of impeccable character—capable of putting a stop to the chaos that would surely ensue.

A Satisfying, Bittersweet Ending—On Reading Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

“To Harry Potter—the boy who lived.”
J. K. Rowling—Toast that concludes the first chapter of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone.


To the faithful readers of the Harry Potter saga:

I’ve tried my best not to spoil the ending of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows for anyone who has yet to read the book. Nevertheless, I may have—most inadvertently—given something away. Therefore, please be warned: continue reading at the risk of being sent to Azkaban.

There’s life after war.

One of J. K. Rowling’s options was to destroy the world she created—and so ingeniously at that—in thundering clouds of wizardly annihilation.

I’m happy she allowed the world of magic to survive. It’s more true to life.

It’s autumn in the epilogue of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows—nineteen years after the final confrontation between You-Know-Who and The Chosen One. A dense grey mist envelops the closing scene of the Harry Potter series. And a congregation of wizards, who are approaching middle-age, are assembled on the train platform—where the Hogwarts’ Express awaits—to bid farewell to the next generation.

Thus, wizardly life goes on.

But some of the old resentments linger. Amid the conversations there’s mention of a new generation of orphans, as well as the sad remembrances of the casualties of the great war between good and evil.

Yet, in spite of the gloomy atmosphere, two beams of hope seep through: those of forgiveness and reconciliation.

What's more, these notions are embodied in a new character: a wizard boy named Albus Severus. In him, the disparate traits of the houses of Gryffindor and Slytherin have merged, which gives the readers hope for a lasting peace.

And toward the epilogue's conclusion, Albus Severus is told that one day he will have to make tough choices regarding the direction of his life—and he’s advised against allowing fear and resentment to factor into his decisions.

It is in this touching and gentle manner that Rowling reminds her readers that we are the sum of our choices; and that if we—or our closest friends, for that matter—should someday err, then it becomes all the more important that the doors to forgiveness and redemption remain open.

As the curtain starts drawing to a close on this epic story, and the surviving characters quietly begin their exit from this wondrous stage, the scars hatred left on them are clearly visible. But the readers also witness how the former Hogwarts' students have left bitterness behind; and although the characters are not as carefree as they were when they first embarked on this great adventure, they, like those of us who accompanied Harry throughout his magnificent seven year journey, are certainly far, far wiser.

Panamá for Sale—Or, the Danger of Calling it Paradise

They called it paradise,
I don’t know why.
You call someplace paradise,
Kiss it goodbye.
The Eagles, “The Last Resort”


During the three years my wife and I lived in Nicaragua, we came to believe that that country was the best kept secret in the region.

Shortly after moving to Panamá, however, we changed our minds.

I still believe that Nicaragua’s geography—with its imposing chain of volcanoes and dazzling strings of lakes—is slightly more stunning than Panamá’s. But the beauty of Panamá is far more accessible—easier to get to and enjoy.

And with regard to material comforts, there’s no contest. When it comes to goods and services—particularly medical care—Nicaragua is a good thirty years behind.

What’s more, Nicaragua’s poverty is oppressing. Whenever I mention this to Panamanians, they assure me that the poor of Panamá also lead difficult lives. I don’t dispute this. I’m only saying that, personally, I’d much prefer to be working class in Panamá than in Nicaragua. Simply put, Panamá offers more opportunities to improve the quality of one’s life.

Prior to coming here, I knew little about this nation. Like most people throughout the world, other than the famed transit route between the seas, I believed there wasn’t much to Panamá. And having attended grammar school in the States—back in the early 1960s—it was drilled into me that the isthmus was really a colony of ours, and that the Stars and Stripes was destined to fly over the American Canal Zone forever.

And while it’s true that my father spent his adolescence and part of his young adulthood here, the stories I heard from him about Panamá—always lovingly tinted through the fond lens of nostalgia—were pale imprints of his past, impossible to grasp with clarity until I moved here and was able to appreciate, although only in small measure, his former world with my own eyes.

Thus, with that scant knowledge, when my wife and I came to Panamá—following the trail of gainful employment—the charm and eye-opening diversity of its people, as well as its natural beauty, took us completely by surprise. These features, plus the startling modernity of the nation, soon led us to conclude that we had indeed found a treasure; and we were thrilled that Panamanians were happy to share it with us.

In the last two or three years, however, in both the local and international English-speaking media, there has been a boisterous advertising blitz that proclaims Panamá to be “Paradise.”

I find this alarming.

If this heavily used marketing leitmotif were directed solely at tourists—saying, “Come, experience Paradise, spend your money, and then have a safe trip back home”—I could easily live with it. But what’s worrisome is that the real estate industry—in a campaign largely fueled by greed—is trying to convince retired American baby boomers and other independently wealthy foreigners to purchase property in Panamá.

Real estate is a finite resource. Plus, is it really desirable to invite hundreds of thousands of outsiders to move here? When my wife and I resided in Nicaragua, there were few foreigners—ourselves included. As a result, we were able to blend into the local culture, rather than impose our ways upon it. Still, in spite of there being relatively few foreigners—in comparison to Panamá—the wealthy immigrants have changed things, and often not for the better, as has happened with the city of Granada, where I spent my adolescence. The presence of foreign capital has raised real estate prices to outrageous levels, to the point where locals, who earn córdobas, as opposed to dollars or euros, can no longer afford to buy property.

And I can now see that Panamanians, who at first were ready to welcome everyone with open arms, are having second thoughts about the growing waves of foreigners who are arriving with money in hand ready to buy a piece of “Paradise.” Most of my neighbors and acquaintances are now gazing with alarm at the capital’s ever-changing skyline. Invariably, they tell me that the construction boom is out of control. And even the experts agree, as stated in interviews published in the nation’s leading papers, that Panamá city doesn’t have the infrastructure—with regard to dealing with the increased vehicular traffic, the dwindling water supply, and the spiraling demand for electricity—to accommodate the unprecedented growth spurt.

And today, as opposed to five years ago, when my wife and I moved here, residents of the capital are starting to take to the streets in protest of the absolute lack of urban planning.

As I watch the sale of Paradise with growing concern, hoping that the government intervenes, perhaps by calling a moratorium on new construction, I can hear Don Henley’s voice in the background, singing “The Last Resort” with heartrending melancholy. This song—the closing track on the Eagles' classic album, Hotel California—speaks specifically to the dilapidation of my beloved Golden State. But as I listen to it today, it’s a warning that if we keep on calling Panamá “Paradise,” we may soon have to kiss the charmed life we’ve led goodbye.