Our Man In Havana Book Club Discussion Questions

Leaving Cuba as a theme always hits a particular chord for me, and in book clubs it shows up as a tapestry of memory, politics, and longing. I notice conversations start with the small things people miss—the smell of plantains frying, a lullaby, the cadence of a neighborhood—then fold out into bigger threads: exile, family separation, the politics of leaving, and the strange economy of nostalgia. Books like 'Dreaming in Cuban' or 'Waiting for Snow in Havana' often act as entry points because they balance intimate family scenes with the sweep of history, which gives readers both the emotional hooks and the context to argue or cry together. Another theme that usually surfaces is identity as an ongoing negotiation. Folks in the club debate language choices, what it means to be “from” a place versus being of it, and how second- or third-generation characters carry both myth and guilt. Race and class appear in quieter ways—who could afford to leave, who stayed, who became a translator of culture for later generations. Then there’s resilience: the humor, the food rituals, the songs that survive migration. I like steering the group toward those moments because they reveal how people remake home. For practical sessions I invite members to bring a memory—an object, a recipe, a line of a song—and we map how the text treats absence and return. That makes the conversation less abstract and more human. Reading these works repeatedly shows me how sorrow and stubborn joy coexist; that mix is why I keep recommending them to every club I stumble into.

Graham Greene’s 'Our Man in Havana' is such a fascinating blend of genres that it’s hard to pin down as just a spy novel. At its core, it has all the trappings of espionage—dead drops, coded messages, and a hapless protagonist dragged into international intrigue. But unlike the gritty realism of 'Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy' or the high-stakes tension of a Le Carré, Greene infuses the story with biting satire and absurdity. Wormold, the vacuum cleaner salesman turned 'spy,' fabricates reports so outlandishly fake that they somehow become credible. It’s less about the mechanics of spying and more about the ridiculousness of bureaucracy and Cold War paranoia. What really stands out is how Greene uses humor to undercut the genre’s conventions. The scene where Wormold sketches vacuum cleaner parts as 'secret military installations' had me laughing out loud. Yet beneath the comedy, there’s a sharp critique of how easily governments—and readers—buy into fabricated narratives. The book’s tone shifts dramatically in the final act, though, introducing genuine danger that feels almost jarring after the earlier farce. That duality is what makes it so memorable: it’s a spy novel that winks at you while still delivering a punch.

'Our Man in Havana' is this quirky, darkly comedic spy novel by Graham Greene, and the characters are just chef's kiss in how they balance absurdity with genuine depth. The protagonist, Jim Wormold, is a vacuum cleaner salesman in Havana who gets roped into spying for the British—despite having zero experience. He’s this everyman who starts fabricating reports to keep his paycheck rolling in, and the way Greene writes him makes you both laugh and cringe at his desperation. His daughter, Milly, is a highlight too—this sharp, materialistic teen who’s constantly draining his finances but also weirdly anchors his moral compass. Then there’s Hawthorne, the stiff-upper-lip MI6 officer who recruits Wormold, and Captain Segura, the local police chief who’s both menacing and oddly charming. The dynamic between these characters turns what could’ve been a straightforward satire into something layered and surprisingly poignant. What’s fascinating is how Greene uses Wormold’s bumbling to critique the absurdity of Cold War espionage. The supporting cast—like Dr. Hasselbacher, Wormold’s melancholic friend, or Beatrice, the no-nonsense secretary sent to 'assist' him—add layers of irony and warmth. The book’s genius lies in how these characters feel like real people caught in a farce, and their interactions blur the line between comedy and tragedy. I’ve reread it twice, and each time I pick up new nuances in their relationships—especially how Wormold’s love for Milly drives his choices. It’s a masterclass in character-driven storytelling.