More than any work of Greene's that I have read, it is suffused with nostalgia for the pre-industrial, pre-bourgeois world, a world of face-to-face encounters between man and God, man and man, man and beast (Rocinante is, after all, more beast than car). Greene celebrates a world of simple appetites that can be directly satisfied when two contentious friends sit down to cheese, sausage, wine and talk. ''Monsignor Quixote'' mildly invites - rather than compels -the reader to share this humble feast.