The End Of The Affair: Exploring the Lingering Questions and Lasting Impact of Graham Greene's Classic Novel

The End of the Affair stands as one of Graham Greene’s most intimate and structurally daring explorations of faith, jealousy, and the unreliable nature of memory. Set primarily in wartime London during the devastating Blitz, the narrative unfolds as a retrospective confession dictated by Maurice Bendrix to his unnamed lover, Sarah Miles. The novel grapples with the paradox of a relationship defined by both profound passion and profound deception, culminating in an existential crisis that questions the very nature of God's intervention in human affairs.

Published in 1951, The End of the Affair transcends its post-war setting to become a timeless study of human vulnerability. Greene masterfully blurs the lines between rationalism and spiritual yearning, using the backdrop of nightly air raids to amplify the characters' internal turmoil. The novel’s enduring power lies in its unflinching look at the complexities of love, where the line between obsession and devotion is perilously thin, and where the quest for truth is often overshadowed by the need for self-deception.

The structure of the novel is central to its impact. Presented as a written account dictated by Bendrix to a scrivener, it is inherently a text of revision and selective recall. This framing immediately casts doubt on the narrator’s objectivity, prompting the reader to become an active participant in uncovering the truth. Greene deliberately withholds full context, forcing the audience to piece together the fragmented narrative much like Bendrix pieces together his fractured emotional state.

The character of Sarah Miles is perhaps the most enigmatic and compelling figure in the novel. On the surface, she appears to be the epitome of English reserve and propriety, a married woman whose life is governed by duty and a strict Catholic faith. However, the intensity of her connection with Bendrix reveals a woman capable of profound passion and equally profound spiritual torment. Her famous "green apple" scene, where she describes the terror and awe of experiencing a miracle, is a pivotal moment that crystallizes the novel’s exploration of the miraculous and the mundane.

> "I remembered the scene as a scene of terror; for terror is the reverse of wonder. I was afraid that the apple should fall."

This quote encapsulates Sarah’s internal conflict. The potential for divine intervention, represented by the possible fall of the apple, is not welcomed but feared. It represents an uncontrollable force that could shatter the carefully constructed reality she has built for herself and her marriage. Her terror is not of the miracle itself, but of the responsibility and upheaval it would inevitably bring to her tightly controlled world.

Bendrix’s perspective provides a contrasting, often more cynical, counterpoint. His narrative is fueled by resentment, jealousy, and a desperate need to prove that his love was more authentic than the muted existence Sarah leads with her husband, Henry. He clings to the past, meticulously documenting his memories, yet his account is riddled with contradictions and justifications. His famous "comparisons," where he ranks his moments of happiness against Henry’s perceived inadequacies, reveal a man trapped in his own narrative of victimhood.

The presence of Henry Miles, though often physically absent, is a powerful and chilling force throughout the novel. He is not a villain, but rather a figure of profound, quiet dignity. His faith is not performative but a deep, internalized part of his being. His kindness, intellect, and genuine love for Sarah stand in stark contrast to Bendrix’s possessive and volatile emotions. Henry embodies the possibility of a love that is stable, respectful, and rooted in a shared spiritual life, making Bendrix’s obsession seem increasingly hollow and destructive.

The Blitz serves as more than just a setting; it is a character in its own right. The constant threat of death and the breakdown of normal society strip the characters down to their core motivations. In the chaos of sirens and explosions, societal constraints fall away, revealing the raw, unfiltered nature of desire, faith, and resentment. The war becomes a crucible that tests the limits of the characters’ relationships and beliefs, forcing them to confront the ultimate questions about mortality and meaning.

Greene’s exploration of faith is nuanced and avoids easy answers. The novel is not a simple treatise for or against religion. Instead, it examines the practical and emotional consequences of faith in a world that is often brutal and indifferent. Sarah’s journey is a testament to the transformative power of belief, even when that belief leads to pain and separation. Bendrix’s journey, conversely, is one of disillusionment, as he grapples with the possibility that the universe might be indifferent to his suffering and longing.

The novel’s famous ending is a masterclass in ambiguity and emotional resonance. It refuses to provide a clear-cut resolution, leaving the reader to grapple with the final implications of Sarah’s actions and Bendrix’s ultimate understanding. The cessation of the extraordinary gift—or curse—of her direct experience of the divine leaves her fundamentally changed, and the nature of her subsequent silence is open to endless interpretation. Is it a return to piety, a withdrawal into trauma, or a profound, word-knowledge?

This deliberate ambiguity is a hallmark of Greene’s genius. He trusts the reader to sit with the discomfort of the unknown, to acknowledge that some truths are ultimately inaccessible. The "end of the affair" is not a single event but a complex, multi-layered process that continues long after the final page is turned. It is the end of the physical and romantic connection, the end of Bendrix’s narrative, and the end of Sarah’s former self, yet the emotional and spiritual repercussions echo indefinitely. The novel’s power lies not in its answers, but in its profound and unsettling questions about the human heart’s capacity for both destruction and grace.