In “Other People’s Books,” Jay Parini recalls his surprise at seeing few books in Graham Greene’s Antibes apartment.
[H]e was by nature peripatetic, shifting among countries, even continents, right to the end of his life. It was, he told me, an inconvenience to own a lot of books, as they’re heavy in one’s bag. So he kept only those authors who really mattered to him: Henry James, Joseph Conrad, and, to my surprise, the 19th-century naval hero and prolific novelist Capt. Frederick Marryat. “Now Marryat,” Greene said to me, “there is a writer!”