ROME -- Who is Michael Mewshaw? Even in the ever-shrinking world of literati, a man as storied and prolific in publication as Mewshaw is far from adequately known, much less championed. It’s not surprising that his idol and mentor, Graham Greene, was in some ways, equally absent from the cognescenti.

 Late-era “Boomers” fawn over Greene – arguably the greatest British author of the Twentieth Century with a name that should float off the tongue in the same breath as Hemingway, or Fitzgerald. Arguably even greater, considering his body of work and the tragically shortened lives of his more spoken of peers. Greene cranked out an average of one book for every two years of his career - more than 32 works.

 As a late-era “Gen-Xer,” who majored in English Literature and Writing, Greene’s name was not one I discovered in university in the United States. Whether that was due to a proliferation of new American writers, a loss of interest in British writers, or some combination of the two, is unknown. A small circle of equally enthusiastic readers and writers introduced Greene to me well into my fourth decade.

 An author who chisels their sentences - works them, melds them, over and over until they have just the right rhythm, pace, and conveyed meaning to fold into the precise place of the piece is an artist, like any other form. When I finally did read Greene, I devoured him. His prose is such that one can quite simply ingest, garner meaning, and yet find something new with each read. He gives you enough to come along for the ride, leaving you with just enough questions to buy the ticket for another spin.

 I, quite serendipitously, was introduced to Mewshaw during such a read. I had pulled Graham Greene’s The Quite American from my “to read '' stack and was chewing through chapters. Close to the end of the novel I was made aware of Mewshaw’s visit by my university’s Literature department. Their involvement made my involvement an obligation – even if only implied, one’s hand is forced at times. I had planned to study Greene in more depth, but plans were frustrated with this push towards yet another author for whom I had no time.

 Throwing my nearly finished paperback to the bed, I opened my computer. I knew Mewshaw had met Greene in the south of France. With Greene still stuck between my teeth, I was intrigued. But Mewshaw had not just met Greene - he’d admired him since his first introduction in high school, and aspired to be as committed to the craft of writing as Greene.

 For me, it wasn’t enough to show up. I needed preparation. I picked up a copy of Mewshaw’s new memoir on Greene and in the first paragraph, I knew my hand had been forced onto the writings of an unapologetically transparent author. Mewshaw’s writing is terse, witty, and littered with humanity. The prose cleanly wraps up the dusty layer that coated both he and Greene’s lives in a crisp little 230 page package. Finding oneself slipping from open laughter into lip-biting empathy (or sympathy) in the spread of half a page is common along the quick read.

 Mewshaw has kept himself as occupied as Greene had. With the release of My Man in Antibes Mewshaw’s tally comes to 25, an equally impressive release every other year on average, spanning his 50 year writing career. In Mewshaw’s case, he is divided between fiction and non-fiction – 11 each – plus three memoirs.  I digested this latest memoir with almost the same ease as the recent read from Greene, and found myself more curious of the path of a burgeoning writer.

 Reading about the “Lost Generation” in 1920s Paris, the mission for me had always been to find my own little gang of five, slipping under the tutelage of an obscure but brilliant wordsmith. It was my belief that this was the only way to become a truly great author. And yet there was Greene, this introvert loner. Gregarious, yes, but introverted nonetheless. And there was Mewshaw.

 I approached the evening of Mewshaw’s visit to the American University of Rome on the Janiculum hill gripping a list of questions, but there was only one paramount. Regarded as Greene’s mentee, how was it that he saw himself gain perspective, or fine-tune technique. Mewshaw started the evening with a few notes from the book, and some lifted purely from his life and his general perspective. At 80, he was softer, but no less transparent, no less unapologetically himself. When the microphone was turned on, I turned to the hesitant crowd and quickly went back to raise my hand. Time was wasting.

 “You were already, technically, an accomplished author [having just published your first book]. How was Greene your mentor? I mean, he obviously supported and encouraged you, but aside from slapping you on the ass and telling you ‘Go get ‘em, kid,’ how do you feel he influenced you?”

 Mewshaw smiled. “It was seeing his work ethic. His consistency and persistence. I think that was the real lesson.” In the end, the lesson of the great author has not changed. What one writes comes from a tremendous amount of personal error, loss, misfortune and fortune alike, as these two greats quite happily display. Writing is life. You either grind it out, put your head down, and beat the god-damned iron into something useful, or you walk away, plated up pretty in self-pity, complaining about the struggle.

 You never get it perfect. You just get it done. And hopefully, somewhere along the way you see something really beautiful. And beauty is not always a flower in springtime, a first kiss, the fog burning off a trickling river valley. No. Sometimes beauty is death, the crumbling facade of what was, the memories of better times. The gratitude for the gorgeous fractions amongst all the rest. And you take note of it all. And you realize that that was what the whole damned journey was for.

 Mewshaw, like his mentor, the great Graham Greene, continues in this clear, simple, thankless, and yet utterly beautiful, utterly important mission.

 jp