Just finished Graham Greene's Ways of Escape. My favorite author, along with Christopher Isherwood, I've since read all of his novels and have been reduced to his latter-day autobiographies. They sort of read like the fat cut off from the meat of his fiction. Nothing more than lovely travelogues, as from his account of Israel after the Seven Days War:

"Only an occasional group of Egyptian tanks retained a scorched, upright dignity and sometimes even faced in the direction of their enemy. Some trucks had started through a grove of date palms towards the blue still sea as though their drivers hoped to escape from war. The bouquets of dates hung overhead out of reach, brown, orange, yellow, scarlet: the trucks failed to reach the white beach before they were sent up in flames."