By Pico Iyer
All of us hold humans within our heads—actors, leaders, writers, humans out of heritage or fiction, met or unmet, who occasionally look toward us than humans we all know.
In The guy inside My Head, Pico Iyer units out to solve the mysterious closeness he has consistently felt with the English author Graham Greene; he examines Greene’s obsessions, his elusiveness, his penchant for secret. Iyer follows Greene’s path from his first novel, The guy Within, to such later classics as The Quiet American and starts off to unpack all he has in universal with Greene: an English public university schooling, a lifelong restlessness and refusal to make a house wherever, a fascination with the issues of religion. The deeper Iyer plunges into their haunted kinship, the extra he starts off to wonder if the fellow inside his head isn't Greene yet his personal father, or maybe a few extra shadowy point of himself.
Drawing upon studies around the globe, from Cuba to Bhutan, and relocating, as Greene could, from Sri Lanka in battle to intimate moments of introspection; attempting to make feel of his personal earlier, commuting among the cloisters of a fifteenth-century boarding college and California within the Nineteen Sixties, considered one of our so much inventive explorers of crossing cultures offers us his such a lot own and revelatory publication.
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Extra resources for The Man Within My Head
I followed dutifully behind her. ” My host-mother seemed to be reciting, greeting me as she held open her front door. Plump and friendly, Batma had a warm way about her that could put anyone at ease. With a layered, bobbed haircut to match Jennifer Aniston’s old Friends coif, Batma had a youthful, energetic look, as if she’d stopped aging when she was a little girl and had only grown bigger. “I am sorry,” she said, giggling, eyes creasing with her wide smile. “I do not speak English. Only little,” she said, pinching her thumb and forefinger to illustrate just how little.
Two years later, after he’d completed his Peace Corps assignment, he was at Georgetown Law School and heard about a summer job clerking at a small private-practice law firm in Mongolia run by an American from New York. Finally, his dream had come true. Not long after, he found himself in Ulaanbaatar, and he’d arrived just a few weeks before I had. Evan had moved from Turkmenistan to Mongolia, and he spoke fluent Turkmen as well as a little bit of Russian, both of which he’d picked up during his Peace Corps stint.
Awkwardly, I sat down. “I think I’m resigning,” I said abruptly. ” Gathering my unrehearsed thoughts, I reminded myself that, for better or worse, this was the risk I wanted to take. That’s not what I said to Jamie, though. Instead, I told him why I thought I was wrong to do what I’d been planning to do. Gripped by a sudden, overwhelming feeling of uncertainty, I was half hoping that he’d talk me out of it, that he’d tell me that dreams are only in your head. But Jamie just listened and I went on, telling myself that regret only makes an appearance when you’re saying your good-byes.