The Cold War

When John le Carré published The Spy Who Came In from the Cold in 1963, it marked a decided change in how the Cold War, specifically espionage, was presented to Western readers. Ian Fleming's James Bond novels had been popular for some time, but le Carré was one of the first major authors to present spycraft as something other than romantic escapism. In the world of George Smiley and the Circus, espionage was a grim and often bureaucratic pursuit, with rules and tactics that did not allow heroism, work that was more sifting through documents and bank records than arranging secret meetings and required a flexible morality that was at odds with conventional wisdom.

Some of this was due to le Carré himself, who was still actively employed by British Intelligence when he wrote his third novel, bringing authenticity and an insider's view to his work. Some of the author's real-life experiences were probably worked into the story as well. When Leamas realizes, at the end of chapter 23, the truth of the operation he is involved in "with the terrible clarity of a man too long deceived,"[1] the bitterness in those words arguably stems from le Carré's own experiences; the author was one of the agents exposed to the Soviets by Kim Philby, the notorious British spy who was given asylum by the Soviet Union in July 1963.[2]

But, more importantly, the early 1960s were a time of uncertainty in the West in general, but the United Kingdom in particular. The newly-erected Berlin Wall, built in 1961, stood not only as a symbol of Communism but as a reminder of how, when faced with action that directly violated the Four Powers Agreement-the treaty that dictated how Berlin would be governed by the Soviet Union, United States, United Kingdom and France-the West backed down, citing the likelihood of nuclear brinksmanship.3 From mid-October to late November 1962, America and the Soviet Union faced off in the Cuban Missile Crisis, raising tensions worldwide but particularly in Western Europe, which would have been virtually at ground zero in the case of all-out war. In a rebuke to British economic policy, specifically a free-trade proposal floated by the United Kingdom, French President Charles de Gaulle vetoed the U.K.'s entry into the European Economic Community in January 1963. 4

And then, there was the Profumo affair. What began as an illicit affair between a government official and a showgirl ballooned into a national scandal after it became known that the showgirl, Christine Keeler, had also been having relations with Yevgeny Ivanov, an attaché to the Soviet Embassy. The official, Secretary of State for War John Profumo, then lied to the House of Commons about his involvement with Keeler. A few months later, he confessed the true nature of his affair, then resigned. The subsequent investigation caused then-Prime Minister Harold Macmillan to step down due to ill health, essentially causing the collapse of the ruling Conservative government. The Profumo affair, as it became known, was a political scandal of major proportions in the United Kingdom and caused much disillusionment among the public. 4

Given the general uncertainty and fear that much of the United Kingdom, and the West in general, experienced at the time, traditional, more romantic ways of looking at espionage and the exploits of secret cold warriors likely seemed invalid. Thus, when a novel that did not romanticize the spy trade came along-when the spies and the bureaucrats that managed them were confused, sometimes amoral agents of conflicting or unclear policy-that novel struck a chord.

Le Carré alluded to some of the appeal of this approach in a 2000 BBC interview discussing his days in the spy trade; he said that the thrill of breaking the law in the service of his country "had a voluptuous quality in the sense that this was a necessary sacrifice of morality." The idea of having to break the rules in order to follow a higher good is not original-the theme runs through Western literature all the way back to Robin Hood-but addressing the "voluptuous quality" seemed new in espionage fiction, and allowed for characters who gained what conventional wisdom might consider an amoral thrill or satisfaction from their work. 5

Critics seemed to sense the appeal that le Carré felt, although even in their responses, there was some hesitation as to how to address it. Le Carré's refusal to paint his protagonists as clearly good men, or their causes as clearly worthy, was not something that had been done in the polite company of established fiction. In their review, the U.K. paper The Sunday Times called the book "a topical and terrible story," and said of le Carré that he was a "rare and disturbing writer." Writer and critic J.B. Priestley referred in his favorable review to the novel's "atmosphere of chilly hell." [1]

But le Carré's unique approach did not just extend to his take on spycraft. In the context of the political atmosphere of the time, his use of Communism itself was unusual in that he did not place emphasis on it. In fact, the only avowed Communist in the novel-and, not incidentally, probably the only voluntary one-is the sympathetic librarian Liz, who becomes Leamas' love interest. While it is clear that Leamas has no particular sympathy for the Party, he also has no particular concern about its presence. When Leamas finds out that Liz belongs to the Communist Party at the end of chapter 4, he laughs, leaving Liz "angry and relieved that he didn't care." [1] Mundt and Fiedler, the two primary characters readers see from the Communist side of the table, would not be out of place in the West; both are proficient, ambitious men who are good at their work and seek to be better.

In the overall arc of the novel, the relative value of Communism vs. capitalism, East vs. West, is never discussed. In fact, there is no clear argument for one over the other, and the relative morality displayed by agents on both sides is not shown in an attractive light. What makes The Spy Who Came In from the Cold unique among novels of the time, and illustrates a cultural shift from prior years, is that for the characters of the novel-Leamas, Fiedler, Mundt, Control and the various agents and employees they command-the practice and goals of espionage are independent of their respective political systems and would still exist if the political systems didn't factor into the equation. The spies who are out in the cold, le Carré tells readers, believe in neither God nor Marx; their work precludes them from ideology.

"It was a foul, foul operation. But it's paid off, and that's the only rule," [1] Leamas tells Liz in chapter 25 as they drive toward their fateful rendezvous at the Berlin Wall, and in an age of disillusionment, collapsing governmental systems and the possibility of nuclear annihilation at any moment, the truth of that statement encapsulates the turmoil the West was experiencing at that point. The Spy Who Came In from the Cold illustrates a world in which old modes of thinking, old political models that were taken for granted, no longer apply. Terms like détenté and realpolitik were not in common use yet, but the novel illustrates a worldview that would in time encompass those ideas neatly.

1 John le Carré, The Spy Who Came In from the Cold (London: Victor Gollancz Ltd., 1963).

2 "John le Carré," Wikipedia; available at http://en.wikipedia.org; Internet; accessed 26 September 2005

3 "Berlin Wall," Wikipedia; available at http://en.wikipedia.org; Internet; accessed 27 September 2005

4 "1963," Wikipedia; available at http://en.wikipedia.org; Internet; accessed 26 September 2005

5 Hasan Suroor, "Le Carre breaks a long silence," The Hindu, December 26, 2000. Available at http://www.hinduonnet.com/2000/12/26/stories/0326000k.htm; Internet; accessed 27 September 2005