It's sophisticated and clever and tremendous fun. No one is more poorly suited to this job than Wormold, and his passivity, his lack of creativity, lead him into a whole mess of trouble. So when an agent from MI6 approaches him to do his duty as an Englishman, he finds himself in the world of spies and agents and secret codes and. He's in a perpetual state of bewilderment, an innocent in a life that happens to him. Our "hero" is a man named Wormold (say no more), a vacuum cleaner salesman who's been left by his wife to raise his manipulative and haughtily Catholic daughter all on his own. The tone of this book is not serious, it's comedic. Our Man in Havana is one such entertainment, which means it won't have you sobbing into the creases of your book like you might do in The End of the Affair, or swooning over incredibly insightful sentences describing human failings and observations. They snubbed their nose at Graham Greene because apparently he wrote too many "entertainments". The 1967 Nobel Prize committee for literature didn't know what they were doing.
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