The Moon and Sixpence

W. Somerset Maugham

So far as I could make out, he painted with great difficulty, and in his unwillingness to accept help from anyone lost much time in finding out for himself the solution of technical problems which preceding generations had already worked out one by one. He was aiming at something, I knew not what, and perhaps he hardly knew himself; and I got again more strongly the impression of a man possessed. He did not seem quite sane. It seemed to me that he would not show his pictures because he was really not interested in them. He lived in a dream, and the reality meant nothing to him. I had the feeling that he worked on a canvas with all the force of his violent personality, oblivious of everything in his effort to get what he saw with the mind’s eye; and then, having finished, not the picture perhaps, for I had an idea that he seldom brought anything to completion, but the passion that fired him, he lost all care for it. He was never satisfied with what he had done: it seemed to him of no consequence compared with the vision that obsessed his mind.

Every once in a while I have the wonderful surprise of stumbling blindly upon some amazing author whose existence I had never even imagined. Such was the case with W. Somerset Maugham. I simply happened upon a small book by the title of The Moon and Sixpence which turned out to be the best book I've read this year.
As far as the book though, this novelette is a picture of the mythical painter Charles Strickland. From the outset, Maugham's dry wit and subtle surprises come to slap you in the face at the end of many a sentence. But it is not for the priceless wit which I find myself championing this book. Maugham also has an insight into the human soul, particularly the artist's soul which I have rarely seen paralleled. With this sort of philosophical tone, I entered into this book with the expectations of another Thomas Hardy society work, incredibly dry and pompous in its abstraction. But I found Maugham to be some darker, more experienced version of P. G. Wodehouse. Perhaps a conversation from the book would help to illumine this:

‘Hang it all, one can’t leave a woman without a bob’
‘Why not?’
‘How is she going to live?’
‘I’ve supported her for seventeen years. Why shouldn’t she support herself for a change?’
‘She can’t.’
‘Let her try.’”

This conversation comes almost directly after the first great movement in the book, in which the mild-mannered and entirely dull Strickland up and leaves his wife of seventeen years. What may come across as the callousness of the main character is never denied by the author although he gives you plenty of reasons to excuse it. Truthfully, Charles Strickland is still a mystery to me. As an artist he represents complete devotion in search of perfection but twinged with the ties of humanity which prevent him from ever attaining his aesthetic goals. Maugham depicts the world's battle against itself in this man, and his terrifyingly stoic death leaves a distaste in your mouth not likely to soon dissipate. Maugham raises the question of Beauty as opposed the human condition of being unable to recognize it. I don't know if the ending of this book will irritate you, but I imagine those less inclined to think while they read will find it a let down.

But while the character of Charles Strickland is impressive in its incongruity and mystery, it is my personal feeling that Dirk Stroeve is far more interesting. A man who is cast upon the wild ocean of life with no more than a feeling that he wants to like people and that he wants people to like him. He suffers the innumerable buffets of a cruel world, feeling their piercing pain and yet is incapable of shielding himself, not so much because he lack means, but because he cannot find it in his heart to be anything but so entirely bare before humanity. Dirk is the character of a man who has incredible insight but is blind to the rock he is about to stumble on; he is a man who has the mind capable of wrapping around all the intricacies and devilries of human society yet cannot get this into his reality. He is the pinnacle of tragic heroes because no one can see him as aught but an ass, he is the height of tragedy because his pain makes us laugh. He is the most depressing, sad, and pitiful of characters because he comes across as nothing short of a joke.

But while art is painted in many ways by Maugham, in the true testament of his understanding, his depiction of art transcends itself and steps into the broader world. From the battle in a man's heart between adventure and comfort to playing with the dynamic between writer and written about--between the man immersed in the world so much he lives great tales to be told my a man understanding of the world enough to relate these stories and this man. The interaction between Strickland and the narrator made me stop to think for a moment.

Maugham is worth whatever time you spend on him, but I recommend the Moon and Sixpence as an interesting story in itself, not to mention an excellent question into art and beauty. 9/10