Bought the complete works of Somerset Maugham this weekend, after finding them in a very handsome 15-volume set selling for 14 euros at a charity shop. Snapped them up, I think partly on the basis of their handsomeness. It's hard to say - hard to say how I feel about Somerset Maugham.
The Moon and Sixpence is among my favourite books, with its repulsive central character being driven through life by his vocation the way normal assholes are driven through life by their ids. No romance to that book - no romance to the idea of dedication to the artistic process - just a lousy fucking asshole who paints and dies of leprosy because he can't do anything else. I love it for the author's descriptive powers, but I think what I like best about it is the way it strips away the romance from the idea that an artist, like any dedicated person, must be
something of a masochistic prick if they're going to have time for it.
But then I think that's Maugham's shtick - stripping away the romance from things - and it can also be wearying, as in
Of Human Bondage. I enjoyed that one as well, but not nearly as much as
The Moon and Sixpence; in fact, proportionately less than
The Moon and Sixpence by the measure of
Of Human Bondage's greater length. While
The Moon and Sixpence's insights were couched through the first person narration of an acquaintance of the protagonists - saving the narrating voice from being too God-dy -
Of Human Bondage read like a cold biopsy of human weakness - a loooooong, cold autopsy of human weakness. But you know, I still liked it. Sort of.
So anyways, I purchased the complete set, and read
The Painted Veil lickety-split so I could imagine
Edward Norton being something besides a corporate shill in the shitty new Hulk movie. I liked it mid-way between
Of Human Bondage and
The Moon and Sixpence. More biopsy than autopsy compared with
Of Human Bondage, though still with that God-dy voice, so not as smooth a read as
The Moon and Sixpence.
Slightly more sensible description of female sexuality than one is used to from male writers of the time, though not setting any records certainly.
But what I enjoyed about
The Painted Veil in particular was the way it explored injury and forgiveness, and the cold necessity of forgiveness if one is to recover from an injury. It explores how and why forgiveness for emotional damage is a two-track train; the need to forgive the person who hurt you is tied to the need to forgive yourself for allowing the hurt, and one without the other hasn't really got you anywhere yet, but both are very and seperately difficult. In my experience it's a way of thinking about forgiveness that rings very true indeed and it's an admirable focus for a book; especially one that is also enjoyable for the author's skill in describing the physical backdrop of the emotional action.
And it's why I don't think I'll be able to bear to watch the movie. It looks like
they totally punked out on the lovelessness of the plot and while that makes sense due to Edward Norton's presence (who wouldn't fall in love with that piece of ass if you were stuck together for a few months?) it doesn't fit in with the central theme of forgiveness in the book. The movie looks like some sort of artsy love story aimed at chicks who enjoy crying. But in the book, by the time Walter Fane died, he and Kitty were no closer to loving each other than they had been when he discovered her infidelity. The book wasn't about love, not a
bit about love, except about how love becomes something you are obliged to forgive yourself for if you loved the wrong person.
In case you doubt me, here's the Oliver Goldsmith poem whose last line was Walter Fane's last words after Kitty begs his forgiveness. I know some readings see it as a tacit apology from the dying man - that he is sorry he was the dog that bit her and now he is dying for it - but that interpretation misses the unmistakable sarcasm of the poem (the dog died because he bit the 'mad' or unwholesome man, giving the lie to the townspeople).
There is no forgiveness here. Walter, dying, didn't hear Kitty's plea, or it wasn't enough for him. Typical cold, clinical, bleak Maugham. Do I like him? I still don't know.
Good people all, of every sort,
Give ear unto my song;
And if you find it wondrous short,
It cannot hold you long.
In Islington there was a man
Of whom the world might say,
That still a godly race he ran—
Whene'er he went to pray.
A kind and gentle heart he had,
To comfort friends and foes;
The naked every day he clad—
When he put on his clothes.
And in that town a dog was found,
As many dogs there be,
Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,
And curs of low degree.
This dog and man at first were friends;
But when a pique began,
The dog, to gain some private ends,
Went mad, and bit the man.
Around from all the neighbouring streets
The wond'ring neighbours ran,
And swore the dog had lost its wits
To bite so good a man.
The wound it seemed both sore and sad
To every Christian eye;
And while they swore the dog was mad,
They swore the man would die.
But soon a wonder came to light
That showed the rogues they lied,—
The man recovered of the bite,
The dog it was that died!
