W. Somerset Maugham

Of Human Bondage

Modern Library, Paperback, 1999.
Foreword by Maugham. Introduction by Gore Vidal. Commentaries by Theodore Dreiser and Graham Greene.

First published by Doran in 1915.

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That's definitely a strange edition. And I am not sure that it is to Modern Library's credit to publish it. Needless to say, the poor rating is entirely due to the poor job they did with the supplementary material. The novel itself is complete, deserves at least five full stars and have had a profound impact on me which I have described elsewhere.

Let me start with the only good thing in the supplementary material of this Modern Library paperback - this is the Foreword written by Maugham himself of course. It is the same as the one reprinted in the modern Vintage Classics paperback edition. Originally it was written for the First Illustrated Edition published by Doubleday Doran in 1936; it is similar, but far from identical, to the Instead of a Preface that Maugham wrote in 1934 for the New Edition (reset) published by Heinemann and which was reprinted in their The Collected Edition few years later. Interestingly, the Doubleday Doran's First Illustrated Edition that I have just mentioned was initially published as a special limited edition of 751 copies signed by both Maugham himself and the illustrator Randolph Schwabe. If you want such a copy today, you have to be a totally crazy Maugham collector ready to spend 400-500 euros at least, probably much more. Later in 1936 the same edition was reprinted as a cheap one, without the signatures of course, and without the Schwabe's illustrations save one as a frontispiece. Strangely, this edition has never been published in England. Certainly the most priceless part of it, save the novel itself, is the wonderful Foreword in which Maugham writes with his usual frankness how this book came to be written and how it did change his writing style a great deal. It is interesting to note that the book probably couldn't completely free Maugham of all his unhappy memories as he said it did, since until the end of his life he apparently could never get over his mother's death; but the novel doubtless had a tremendous effect on Maugham's personality and certainly was the greatest turning point in his career as a writer. But this is not the place to elaborate on that!

Now I come to the negative sides of this Modern Library edition. And these are the pieces not written by Maugham.

The book starts with short (two and a half pages) biographical note which is so poorly written that I am not surprised it is anonymous. It gives the reader neither anything substantial about Maugham's life nor about his literary output. All it does is to list, perfunctory and carelessly, the main facts and cliches about Maugham. Modern Library could well have spared the publication of such a crap.

The saddest part of all is that Modern Library could well have spared the publication of the other introductory pieces as well. Except for Theodore Dreiser's review.

Dreiser's review reprinted here appears to have been published in The New Statesman in 1915. If I am not very much mistaken, this must be the now legendary review that might well have saved Of Human Bondage from something very much like complete oblivion. Even when Dreiser goes a little bit over the top, comparing Of Human Bondage with the symphonic masterpieces of Strauss and Beethoven and hailing the author as a genius, he does so in a fine style that is a pleasure to read. When he criticizes he does so with tact and understanding, as every sensible man would do. I find his point about the missing sexual part between Philip and Sally quite revealing indeed. His lashing of the American criticism of the novel, including the famous description 'the sentimental servitude of a poor fool' by the New York World, is highly amusing and not at all without some food for thought. On the whole, his review is sympathetic, amusing and perceptive.

Certainly Dreiser's review deserves its place here; it has not only a great historical significance about the novel but it is well written and sensible. I wish the same was true for Vidal's and Greene's pieces. But it isn't.

Gore Vidal's lengthy Introduction is dated 1990 and appears to have been a review of biography of Maugham by Robert Calder. This could have been mentioned but it wouldn't have saved the piece anyway. It is strange to me that something so trite and so badly written could have been produced by the same man who wrote so brilliantly in The Creation, Julian and Kalki. Here, in this strange hybrid between essay, review and biography, Vidal offers a little if anything more than the usual cliches about Maugham; hackwork par excellence. He tries to be casual but manages only to be vulgar. His attaching a grossly exaggerated significance to Maugham's sexual orientation and life, as usual with biographies of the great writer, is just short of being obscene. Moreover, Vidal gives many biographical facts about Maugham which are simply out of place here, especially considering the fact that by 1990 a good many biographies of Maugham had already been published, including Ted Morgan's most comprehensive (if a most prejudiced as well) account. Vidal would have done much better to offer more of his reflections about Maugham. Actually, perhaps it is better that he did not. Besides the damning sarcasm about Mr Calder, Gore Vidal says very little of any interest about Maugham among a great deal of nonsense written in the worst possible style, if it can be called a style at all. Personally, I found only his remarks about Maugham's misogyny and his late, and notorious, memoirs Looking Back somewhat shrewd and worth considering, namely that when Maugham discovered that women liked sex as much as men do and said so he was called misogynist and that in the end of his life he was perhaps just fed up with playing safe all his life. Yet, this review-essay-biographical sketch might have been discarded from the present volume without any harm for its readers. To finish with Mr Vidal, it must be noted that his statement about the excerpt from the infamous review of Edmund Wilson he quotes is grossly inaccurate. Wilson's spiteful remarks referred to Maugham's novel Then and Now (1946), not to The Razor's Edge (1944) , much less to Maugham's whole literary output as Mr Vidal states. Of course, it is very likely that Wilson, notorious for his shameful criticism on that particular author, did think so about Maugham in general (if he ever read anything by Maugham at all), but Mr Vidal's sloppiness is just another proof how flippantly he regards his subject. Why should one do something voluntarily if one is not prepared to give one's best is still something beyond me.

As for Graham Greene's piece, it is just two pages or so, is taken from his Collected Essays and, I guess, is something of a review of Maugham's The Summing Up written in 1938. It is hard to find anything valuable in it. Mr Greene's writing is tedious, trivial and far from remarkable, the best passage actually is a long quote from Maugham. Moreover, Mr Greene shows simply, and quite convincingly, that he had no idea what Maugham ever tried to do and he completely lacks understanding of Maugham's view of life and people. He is sure that Maugham was limited by his agnosticism since it led him not to attach any importance to human actions; also that men robbed of their belief in God, their heavenly and infernal significance, are robbed from their individuality. I can hardly imagine greater nonsense than that. If there is anything that robs people of their individuality and makes them all of a piece, this is the church and the religious belief (Christianity especially!) with their numerous (and ludicrous!) canons and rules and dogmas how miserable the human life is and how pathetic the human beings are. As for the statement that Maugham did not attach importance to human actions, it is grossly inaccurate. Few writers if any ever devoted their entire output more consistently to the human nature, and all its thoughts, actions, fears, hopes, sufferings and joys, than Maugham did. I guess what Mr Greene meant as negative side of Maugham is exactly what I consider one of his greatest assets: he never judged and he never moralized. He was content to observe and leave the reader drew his own conclusions.

It is so easy to judge and condemn. It is so much harder to understand and show tolerance, especially about something or somebody whom you hardly regard with any respect but to whom you are not at all indifferent, either. Maugham succeeded quite often in his writings to give sensible and balanced opinion, even when he criticized harshly an author. Few have failed more miserably to do so than Messrs Vidal and Greene in their writings reprinted in the Modern Library edition of Of Human Bondage. ( )

That synopsis is so inadequate, but honestly I have no idea how to improve it. To state that this book is about love is a gross understatement. In addition, this book is not just a coming-of-age novel. I would say that the main theme is relationships - to friends, to family, to the opposite sex, to yourself. Equal parts philosophical and dramatic, Maugham requires the reader to reexamine his or her own relationships throughout one's life, bringing to life both painful and joyful memories.

Philip is very much a flawed main character. He is overly sensitive and boorish, snobbish and elitist. He struggles to form lasting relationships with others and constantly lets his clubfoot impact those relationships. Even worse, he has a delusional opinion of love that gets him constantly in trouble. And yet, the reader feels tremendous sympathy for Philip because we have all been in Philip's shoes at some point in time in our lives. Everyone has had experience being overly sensitive or boorish, snobbish or elitist. We have all had at least one bad, unhealthy love interest or friendship. We can relate to his struggles to grow up because we have all had to do so ourselves.

This sympathy for Philip is what makes this book timeless. Philip's experiences easily translate to the twenty-first century because they are decidedly human experiences - questioning faith, experiencing love, struggling to make ends meet. Because of this, the book is equally frustrating and beautiful because honestly, who wants to relive their painful youth? And yet, Maugham tells the experience of growing up so well that the reader is forced to relive their youth through Philip's experiences.

Because of the pain and angst Philip experiences throughout the book, it is not comfortable reading at times and therefore may not be for everyone. I know others who read this with me who expressed a desire to take Philip by the shoulders and shake some sense into him. I definitely shared those sentiments at time, and yet, the lack of sense is what made the book so enjoyable. Watching him grow and become a man is painful and frustrating, but so is actually doing it. As a reader of this book, remembering this fact is key to sympathizing with Philip and enjoying the book itself.

I would recommend this book to anyone who loves classics or character-driven books. Maugham makes the reader think, which is never a bad thing in my opinion. Like most classics, it is not an easy read but worth the struggle.

If you have read Of Human Bondage, I would love to know what you thought. Do you agree with my assessment or disagree? What were your impressions? ( )

W. Somerset Maugham

Of Human Bondage

Vintage Classics, Paperback, 2000.*

First published by Doran in 1915.

* Contains the Foreword written for the First Illustrated Edition published by Doubleday, Doran in 1936 as a Deluxe edition of 751 copies signed by both the author and the illustrator Randolph Schwabe. Later published as cheap edition. Never reprinted in England.

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I do not think I would go as far as the vast number of people who claim that Of Human Bondage is the greatest book Somerset Maugham ever wrote. It is surely the longest one and I guess that is what people generally mean by ‘greatest’. It is a very narrow point of view that to be great a book must first be long, and vice versa: if it is short, it just can’t be great. As for Maugham, he wrote too many great books, most of them a great deal shorter than Of Human Bondage, and they are too different, hardly comparable, from each other. So I do think it is rather pointless to single out just of his books as ‘the greatest’. Yet, even if not the greatest, Of Human Bondage is surely one of Maugham’s greatest books. Moreover, and infinitely more important indeed, is a fact that nobody can deny: this is the first really great book Maugham wrote.

Of Human Bondage was first published by Doran in 1915. Few people today know that Maugham was then 40 years old and had already written no less than ten books: eight novels, one short story collection and one travel book, not to mention a number of short stories published in magazines and a good many plays. Indeed, Maugham’s first success was as a playwright, in 1907 when his play Lady Frederick quite unexpectedly had a huge success; next year he had four plays running simultaneously in London, a stunning achievement that prompted Punch to publish the now famous caricature with the sullen Shakespeare watching posters with Maugham’s name only. Almost literally Maugham became the most successful dramatist of his day overnight. Naturally, he made up his mind to write only plays all his life and nothing else; the stage brought him fame and financial independence for decades ahead. Staggering as it may sound, only in 1912 and 1913 no less than nine of his plays were published.

But what happened that Maugham should have left the cornucopia of the stage for writing an extremely long novel that could hardly have brought him anything like the stage, at least in terms of fame and money? The novel did indeed bring him much more than that. It brought him peace. Twenty years or so later Maugham wrote a fascinating preface for Of Human Bondage which he started with a charming apology:

This is a very long novel and I am ashamed to make it longer by writing a preface to it.

It is one of the most absorbing prefaces Maugham ever wrote. He gives extremely interesting biographical details how this novel came to be written at the expense of the stage. Here they are:

I became in due course a very successful playwright and determined to devote the rest of my life to the drama. But I reckoned without a force within me that made resolutions vain. I was happy, I was prosperous, I was busy. My head was full of the plays I wanted to write. I do not know whether it was that success did not bring me all I had expected or whether it was a natural reaction from it, but I was no sooner firmly established as the most popular dramatist of the day than I began once more to be obsessed by the teeming memories of my past life. They came to me pressingly, in my sleep, on my walks, at rehearsals, at parties, they became such a burden to me, that I made up my mind there was only one way to be free of them and that was to write them all down on paper. After submitting myself for some years to the exigencies of the drama I hankered after the wide liberty of the novel.

It is a very well known fact that Of Human Bondage is an autobiographical novel, the kind of book that a writer can write only once because he has only one life after all, as Maugham once said. But this is not an autobiography. It is a work of fiction. It should not, must not, be used to draw any conclusions about author’s life, or this or that acquaintance of his who might have or might have not been used as a model for this or that character. Maugham often said that he used everything and everybody in his life when he sat down to write a novel or a short story, but he always exercised his imagination and inventiveness to create a coherent and alive characters as well as plausible, convincing and dramatic story. Neither exists in the real life, or if it does it is an extremely rare thing. Apparently, nobody has ever read seriously all that Maugham wrote about the art of fiction. I have read a great deal of nonsense by Maugham’s (in)famous biographers about his plots and characters and their putative precursors in the real life. Such speculations are not only ridiculous but worse – they are pointless. Never in his life did Maugham hide the fact that he used real persons and real incidents in his fiction, but he always stressed that he used all this only as a base, as a starting point for his creative imagination. There are some people who believe that knowledge of author’s life can give them a better understanding about a work of fiction. Most certainly I am not one of them. I should like to think that the character of the author, what sort of person he was, might enhance one's enjoyment; but to make extrapolations about one's character and personality out of what he did or what the others said about him, not to mention distorted interpretation of his own words, is a very dangerous business and so far the biographers of Maugham whose works I read did an extremely poor job of it. In any case, I am not concerned with the creation of a novel but only with the final result; nor do I care what specific communication if any the author wanted to make with his readers. This is his own business, not mine. Somerset Maugham did not want to make any communication with this book but to free himself. So he did:

The book did for me what I wanted and when it was issued to the world (a world in the throes of a dreadful war and too much concerned with its own sufferings and fears to bother with the adventures of a creature of fiction) I found myself free from the pains and unhappy recollections that had tormented me.

What I am most concerned with when I read a book is what this book can tell me, not what the book meant to his author, much less what the critics say about it. I am curious to read the former and don't care a packet of pins about the latter, but ultimately neither interfere with the benefit if any I can get from the book itself. It should be pointed out that Maugham, in his non-fiction writings in general and in his wonderful prefaces particularly and especially, rarely if ever write about what his books mean to him or what the foundations for them in real life had been; he does mention something about that but he is much more concerned with the general principles of how life is dramatized and thus turned into fiction than with the concrete facts behind his fiction. The ultimate conclusion from all this is that a work of fiction should be read first and most of all for enjoyment, not for making preposterous biographical extrapolations about author's life; it is an brilliantly created illusion that gives intelligent entertainment and, perhaps, a great deal more than that. For my own part, discovering the facts behind the fiction hinders my benefits from the latter rather to enhance them. I am very happy indeed that I read the biographies of Morgan and Meyers after I had read almost all of Maugham's oeuvre. I have yet to read somebody writing about Maugham who is more convincing in his honesty than Mr Maugham himself.

I think the first thing which strikes me in Of Human Bondage is Maugham’s style. It is quite different than any in his earlier books and, needless to say, a great deal superior. I think I can safely say that his mature style as a writer was fully formed and instantly evident in all its brilliance for the very first time in this book. And this happened after he had written ten other books in the course of more than a decade if I may remind you. By a way of a little digression, I should like to mention I have always considered Somerset Maugham as one of the best examples for strong determination, powerful character, iron will and indefatigable industry for years which are richly rewarded in the end, financially and not only. Again in the aforementioned wonderful preface, Maugham gives a remarkable description of the change in his own style that came with the writing of his autobiographical novel:

I no longer sought a jewelled prose and a rich texture, on unavailing attempts to achieve which I had formerly wasted much labour; I sought on the contrary plainness and simplicity. With so much that I wanted to say within reasonable limits I felt that I could not afford to waste words and I set out now with the notion of using only such as were necessary to make my meaning clear. I had no space for ornament. My experience in the theatre had thought me the value of succinctness.

This style was later to develop even further in terms of saying a great deal about human nature with even fewer words and is one of the chief components of Maugham’s enigma. The critics dismiss him as second rate because of his apparent superficiality, but the readers love him because of his eminent readability. Both of these quite opposite reactions have their firm roots in Maugham’s style. Although he later referred to his writing in Of Human Bondage as shoddy and with too many mistakes in the grammar (which I still cannot find), his autobiographical novel ranks among his best achievements in terms of psychological insight and extraordinary perceptiveness about human nature combined with readability that should never be underestimated. After all, if a book is not readable, it is useless no matter how great its philosophical depth may be; and to say that readability is a bad thing not suitable for great literature, as some critics are apt to do, is simply foolish, to say the least. But the style is just a weapon. Should you have no ammunition, it is absolutely useless. Your style may well be exquisite and brilliant, but if you have nothing interesting to say you’re done.

And this, perhaps, is the most remarkable thing about Of Human Bondage: it has a lot of ammunition. Tons of it. If that was the only criteria, it could safely be described as Maugham’s greatest book. In no other of his novels did he explore so vast a number of topics. Virtually everything Maugham ever was interested in is present in Of Human Bondage, even if in his later novels he was to explore some aspects of the human nature more deeply and with even greater acumen: God, faith and religion; the power of money; the art, its impact on human beings and its criticism; the society and the individual; love, family and marriage and so on, and so on. There is everything for everybody in Of Human Bondage. It is significant that Maugham’s very next novel, The Moon and Sixpence (1919) about the nature of art and the psyche of genius, and especially his masterfully written short stories from the famous Rain (1920) onwards, were the beginning of his mature and most productive period which lasted for more than 40 years and enriched the world literature not only with brilliant novels and short stories but also with travel writing, essays and literary criticism, not to mention Maugham’s most personal masterpiece, perhaps really his greatest book and one that defy classification at all, The Summing Up (1938). If one is forced to name the main topic in all this great oeuvre, I think one couldn’t do better than saying just two words: human nature. Maugham’s extremely shrewd and astonishingly perceptive writing entirely dedicated to the human nature certainly make his career as writer one of the most extraordinary phenomena in the history of twentieth century literature. Its beginning, both in terms of style and content, was Of Human Bondage and its famous protagonist. Consider the following.

No other writer but Maugham can give you so much is so small a space, for example a concise analysis of society spiced with triple (even quadruple!) nationality:

You know, there are two good things in life, the freedom of thought and the freedom of action. In France you get freedom of action: you can do what you like and nobody bothers, but you must think as anybody else. In Germany you must do what everybody does, but you may think as choose. They're both very good things. I personally prefer the freedom of thought. But in England you get neither: you're ground down by convention. You can't think as you like and you can't act as you like. That's because it's a democratic country. I expect America's worse.

I have yet to read any other writer who can give you more profound characterization in just a few words. Maugham does not spare his unique talent for giving a superb insight into the minds even of minor characters. So despite their limited significance for the plot, they become memorable; Monsieur Ducroz is one such character. If you think that his taciturnity is a simple thing, or a mere caprice, you had better think again:

Perhaps his taciturnity hid a contempt for the human race which has abandoned the great dreams of his youth and now wallowed in sluggish ease; or perhaps these thirty years of revolution had thought him that men are unfit for liberty, and he thought that he had spent his life in the pursuit of that which was not worth the finding. Or maybe he was tired out and waited only with indifference for the release of death.

How about Philip Carey? The New York World described the novel as the sentimental bondage of a fool when it first appeared and if Theodore Dreiser had not published his famous review later, Of Human Bondage might well have been completely forgotten today. I must confess that the spiteful critics from the Big Apple really hit the nail on the head with that description and I couldn’t agree more. Philip Carey is indeed a sentimental fool who manages, only for twenty years or so, to inflict on himself every possible bondage the human soul is capable of. Despite his clubfoot that makes one always feel pity for him, Philip is an extremely exasperating character. I am often furious with him. But Maugham’s writing is so readable and at the same time so deeply penetrating and convincing that I cannot help but asking myself: am I really so strong and would I really act so differently should I find myself in one of Philip’s predicaments? I really do not know. With every single page I continue to identify myself with Philip Carey more and more – against my will. One of the most powerful episodes in the whole book is doubtless when Philip lost his faith. Either with dialogue or going directly inside his head, Maugham describes persuasively a phenomenon with complexity that can hardly be imagined:

'St. Augustin believed that the earth was flat and that the sun turned around it.'
'I don't know what that proves.'
'Why, it proves that you believe with your generation. Your saints lived in an age of faith, when it was practically impossible to disbelieve what to us is positively incredible.'
'Then how d'you know that we have the truth now?'
'I don't.'
Philip thought this over for a moment, then he said:
'I don't see why the things we believe absolutely now shouldn't be just as wrong as what they believed in the past.'
'Neither do I.'
'Then how can you believe in anything at all.'
'I don't know.'
Philip asked Weeks what he thought of Hayward’s religion.
'Men have always formed gods in their own image,' said Weeks.
‘He believes in the picturesque.’
Philip paused for a little while, then he said:
'I don't see why one should believe in God at all.'

Faith had been forced upon him from the outside. It was a matter of environment and example. A new environment and a new example gave him the opportunity to find himself. [...] The religious exercises which for so many years had been upon him were part and parcel of religion to him.
[...]
Suddenly he realized that he had lost also that burden of responsibility which made every action of his life a matter of urgent consequence. He could breathe more freely in a lighter air. He was responsible only to himself for the things he did. Freedom! He was his own master at last. From old habit, unconsciously he thanked God that he no longer believed in him.

Religion, and perhaps faith, is surely one of the most devastating bondages a man can succumb to. By the way, are these different things? And where does the Church come into the whole picture? The following two paragraphs might give you some food for thought, although in his later works - notably the partly autobiographical The Summing Up (1938) and A Writer's Notebook (1949) - there are much more profound reflections on that topic to be found.

The Almighty can hardly be such a fool as the churches make out. If you keep His laws I don't think He can care a packet of pins whether you believe in Him or not.

You know, I don't believe in churches and parsons and all that [...] but I believe in God, and I don't believe He minds much about what you do as long as you keep your end up and help a lame dog over a stile when you can. And I think people on the whole are very nice, and I'm sorry for those who aren't.

I wish I could agree with Mrs Nesbit, her last sentence in particular. But somehow I cannot.

Philip’s fairly rich life and his sojourns in Heidelberg and Paris, give Maugham an ample opportunity for introducing many fascinating and extraordinary alive characters. Their words and Philip’s reflections are the canvas and the oil with which Maugham masterly describes many other forms of human bondage. Some, for example, are enslaved by the illusion that they have anything like talent for arts, even that extremely rare quality of the soul called genius, and so should devote their lives to the pursuit of art. Few things are more dangerous than this illusion:

'By George, I believe I've got genius.'
He was in fact very drunk, but as he had not taken more than one glass of beer, it could have been due only to a more dangerous intoxicant than alcohol.

Other terrible, and quite despicable to my mind, form of human bondage is the idealism. And not a few people are victims of this ridiculous obsession either. They might evade the tragic destiny of the artist-to-be, dying in sordid poverty with a body ruined completely by huge amounts absinthe, but their story is even sadder. When the idealist eventually die, and die he shall, no other human life can have been more useless and no other person’s stay on earth could have been a more worthless business. For my own part, I have never read more accurate and more profound description of the idealism and the idealist than the one in Of Human Bondage. And all this in just one paragraph:

He was a man who saw nothing for himself but only through a literary atmosphere, and he was dangerous because he had deceived himself into sincerity. He honestly mistook his sensuality for romantic emotion, his vacillation for the artistic temperament, and his idleness for philosophic calm. His mind, vulgar at its effort at refinement, saw everything a little larger than life size, with the outlines blurred, in a golden mist of sentimentality. He lied and never knew that he lied, and when it was pointed out to him said that lies are beautiful. He was an idealist.

What about money? Are they the most important thing in the world? I should certainly think so. Just like Philip, when I hear somebody speaking contemptuously about money I ask myself if he or she has ever tried to do without it:

He had heard people speak contemptuously of money: he wondered if they had ever tried to do without it. He knew that the lack made a man petty, mean, grasping; it distorted his character and caused him to view the world from a vulgar angle; when you had to consider every penny, money became of grotesque importance: you needed a competency to rate it at its proper value.

It must be a grotesque misunderstanding that money make people worse. Perhaps a fabulous wealth does that and I am not sure even about that, I guess it depends on the man. So does the opposite I surmise but the lack of money – and this I know for sure from my own experience – is a devastating experience, especially in terms of psychology. I should think that very few can bear it with equanimity and retain their mental health undisturbed, much fewer than in the case of great wealth. I couldn’t agree more with that harsh but just French teacher:

There is nothing so degrading as the constant anxiety about one's means of livelihood. I have nothing but contempt for the people who despise money. They are hypocrites or fools. Money is like a sixth sense without which you cannot make a complete use of the other five. Without an adequate income half the possibilities of life are shut off. The only thing to be careful about is that you do not pay more than a shilling for the shilling you earn. You will hear people say that poverty is the best spur to the artist. They have never felt the iron of it in their flesh. They do not know how mean it makes you. It exposes you to endless humiliation, it cuts your wings, it eats into your soul like a cancer. It is not wealth one asks for, but just enough to preserve one's dignity, to work unhampered, to be generous, frank, and independent. I pity with all my heart the artist, whether he writes or paints, who is entirely dependent for subsistence upon his art.

One of the most charming and amusing characters in the novel certainly is the legendary Cronshaw. He not only gives Maugham an opportunity for a hilarious epigram a la theatre stage

He had pondered for twenty years the problem whether he loved liquor because it made him talk or whether he loved conversation because it made him thirsty.

but he is also a vehicle for conveying a huge amount of ideas about the nature and psychology of the human animal:

But art is a luxury. Men attach importance only to self-preservation and the propagation of their species. It is only when these instincts are satisfied that they consent to occupy themselves with the entertainment which is provided for them by writers, painters, and poets.

Art [...] is merely the refuge which the ingenious have invented, when they were supplied with food and women, to escape the tediousness of life.

The illusion which man has that his will is free is so deeply rooted that I am ready to accept it.

I refuse to make a hierarchy of human actions and ascribe worthiness to some and ill-repute to others. The terms vice and virtue have no signification for me. I do not confer praise or blame: I accept. I am the measure of all things. I am the centre of the world.

But are you under the impression that men ever do anything except for selfish reasons?

You will find as you grow older that the first thing needful to make the world a tolerable place to live in is to recognize the inevitable selfishness of humanity. You demand unselfishness from others, which is a preposterous claim that they should sacrifice their desires to yours. Why should they? When you are reconciled to the fact that each is for himself in the world you will ask less from your fellows. They will not disappoint you, and you will look upon them more charitably. Men seek but one thing in life - their pleasure.

You rear like a frightened colt, because I use a word to which your Christianity ascribes a deprecatory meaning. You have a hierarchy of values; pleasure is at the bottom of the ladder, and you speak with a little thrill of self-satisfaction, of duty, charity, and truthfulness. [...] It is pleasure that lurks in the practice of every one of your virtues. Man performs actions because they are good for him, and when they are good for other people as well they are thought virtuous: if he finds pleasure in giving alms he is charitable; if he finds pleasure in helping others he is benevolent; if he finds pleasure in working for society he is public-spirited; but it is for your private pleasure that you give twopence to a beggar as much as it is for my private pleasure that I drink another whiskey and soda. I, less of a humbug than you, neither applaud myself for my pleasure nor demand your admiration.

For my own part, I really do find these passages extremely powerful, thought-provoking and perceptive. To my mind, Maugham rarely wrote more convincingly about more serious matter. Now, of course, you may well disagree with these statements, certainly I do not agree with all of them myself; you might very well be appalled by Maugham’s cynicism and low opinion of human nature, you might call him terrible names and dismiss him as an odious cynic. You're welcome to do all that. But these paragraphs are sure to make you think deeply about a good many things, unless of course you are somebody perfectly devoid of any mental resources and just a little common sense. And that’s the important thing and that’s chiefly what makes Of Human Bondage one of the greatest books ever written: it simply compels you to reflect upon myriad of things as important today as they were in Maugham's time, as they ever were. What is even better, marvellous actually, is that there is always more than one point of view, Maugham never offers you anything one-sided, and the answers lie solely in the hands of the reader. And in his head of course.

Do you know, however, which is the greatest bondage that the miserable human soul can succumb to?

Love.

No, this is no joke. About one third of the whole novel, wisely split into several parts, is dedicated entirely to the love story between Philip and Mildred, a shallow, stupid, vulgar and promiscuous waitress. Philip’s devastating mixture of love, passion and obsession for her has nothing whatsoever to do with the slightest trace of common sense and quite naturally leads him right to the bottom in both physical and psychological aspect. This is the most illogical, mentally masochistic and humiliating love affair I have ever read about. And yet, Maugham's fabulous mastery of describing Philip's confused mind and his formidable command of the writing style are so great that he easily makes every part of the heart-rending story not just believable but truly convincing. I can hardly say I read this book. I live it. And when I look deep into myself I cannot but discern the sad fact I myself have been victim of the same thing; not so brutal of course as it was dramatized for the purpose of fiction, but broadly speaking very much the same. What is love actually? It is like a sharp razor: you walk on it and you bleed profusely at the same time, unbearable pain that eats you from inside destroying everything good in you and transforming you into a vile incarnation of jealousy – or passion. Is there any difference between love and lust? Or the former is just a nice euphemism for the latter? Are we any wiser for making out love the greatest thing in the world and the sole justification for our existence? Or is it that love is nothing more than the numerous sacrifices we made in the name of the person whom we, so to say, love? The more humiliated we are, the more we give our most cherished possessions, out energy, our money, our time, our souls, the more satisfied our vanity is. How terrible that vanity should be part and parcel of every human emotion, superficially labelled as good or bad, and how monstrous that it should be the real master of our minds, bodies and souls. Or is this all just my sick fancy? How about the affection and the loving-kindness? Are they possible in human beings? Certainly I think so. But are they as often part and parcel of us as our vanity is? Have they anything to do with love or not? Are they better or worse? I wish I knew at least some of these things.

The end of the amazing story of Philip Carey left me disappointed the first time I read the book. I found the happy end somewhat out of place and I was not very much surprised when I read that Maugham himself thought the end the weakest part of the book and it is the end that is usually criticized most harshly by the critics. But the second time I read Of Human Bondage I was left dumbfounded with a staggering discovery. Is this end really happy? Did Philip really succeed at last to escape the bondage in his personal life just as he had already done in his professional one by qualifying as a doctor? Did he not fall to just another, and most dangerous of all, form of human bondage giving up all his dreams, all his hopes and all his plans just to get married? Did he not betray everything he had ever been? Or did he actually fulfil his character completely by marrying that girl? Was he a really wise man or was he a perfect fool? I wish I knew.

But I do not. What I do know, however, is that all this confused storm of thoughts, feelings, fears, hopes, passions, obsessions, and God (should he exist) knows what else was created, stimulated and fed for quite some time solely by Of Human Bondage. That is why this magisterial work is one the greatest masterpieces not only in Maugham’s oeuvre but in the treasury of XX century literature. That is why everybody at least a bit interested in the world and the people around should read Of Human Bondage; just because this is a book concerned exclusively with human nature, perhaps the most complex and worth studying phenomenon out there. But do not worry if you read the book and you don’t like it at all; there is nothing wrong with that, it is just not your type of book. There is no reason why you should not find the same revelation and enlightenment as I have with Of Human Bondage but with some other book, and I certainly do not think it would be terrible if it is a book I could not possibly care for. There is nothing whatsoever wrong with that, actually the very, and often extremely, different responses of different persons to the same book, music, play, movie or any other work of art are the very essence of art itself. And the sole reason why it should exist at all. In any case, it is highly unlikely, considering how different deep inside people are, that the same work of art, especially a timeless masterpiece, should produce the same reaction in different people. Moreover, had this been so, we all would have perished by sheer boredom. As Maugham wrote in his fascinating collection of notes A Writer's Notebook:

It is absurd to despise people who don't share our aesthetic opinions. We all do.

Brutally candid, as usual, but so true. Again as usual.

But you should always keep in mind that to take one has first to give. So you should give your time and your mind completely to a book if you want to get the best it can offer you. And if can't do that, you'd better not read it at all. But if it is a really great book and if it really appeals to you, it will stay with you all your life. It will always be there to give you a few hours delight for your soul and to add a new strength to your character in order to cope with this life, here and now. It will never be unfaithful to you. It will always be there when you need it. Such are the really great books. Such a book Of Human Bondage truly is. ( )

Of Human Bondage, by W. Somerset Maugham, is a book that is considered, for want of a better word, “literature.” Don't let that scare you; it basically means it was written long ago. Maugham was born in 1874 and lived until 1965, dying at the age of 91. Think about what that long life meant to him as a writer and as a human being. Born in the middle of the Victorian Age (1837-1901), he lived to see two World Wars, nuclear weapons, the Beatles and Vietnam. He wrote Of Human Bondage in 1915, when he was forty years old. The book is semi-autobiographical, although it does not touch on homosexuality; Maugham was gay. He had observed the persecution of Oscar Wilde, so it is easy to understand why he kept that aspect of his life private. Maugham also wrote The Razor's Edge, The Moon and Sixpence, and The Letter, among other works. Several of his novels or stories have been made into movies.

Of Human Bondage revolves around a young man, Philip, born into an affluent family. Although he is a gentleman, he has a birth defect; a club foot. At the death of his mother, Philip goes to live with his overbearing uncle, a Vicar at a small country church. Through some trial and error, including attempts at other vocations, he begins to study medicine. Throughout the book Philip’s deformity, which causes him to limp noticeably, compounded by his naiveté, affects his confidence and social interactions.

The main conflict in the story occurs when Philip falls in love with Mildred, a girl who doesn’t care for him. Various things occur and the girl is eventually left penniless and turns to a life unbecoming to a lady. Because he continues to help Mildred when he shouldn’t, he also becomes destitute. Their relationship is a learning experience for Philip, and the things he is taught are not always pleasant. Other trials occur and eventually Philip finds himself on the path toward a satisfying life, but not the life he had once envisioned for himself.

Of Human Bondage is rated a 5. While it is considered Maugham’s greatest work, that’s not why I gave it that rating. I found it very enjoyable and interesting because it describes a world with societal norms that are long past. You may regard some of them as quaint, yet you will see the value in adherence to the rules of etiquette and decency in force at the time the story takes place. The tale contains pathos, drama, and a moral (if you care to infer one). We see Philip’s various missteps, yet we also observe his maturation, his growing sense of self, and his coming to terms with who and what he is. This book is a classic and highly recommended. Also, it’s British! ( )

This book is a study of late Victorian society among other things. Set mainly in England with excursions to Germany and France we see clerical life in rural Kent, Bohemian Paris of the Latin Quarter, office work and medical school in London. The main character Phillip moves from a position of relative wealth and comfort all the way down to poverty and homelessness, and all because of his unrequited love for the mercenary Mildred. This is not a romantic or beautiful love worth suffering for though as Mildred is completely unlovable and is, in fact, incapable of feeling love herself. Nor is it her feminine beauty that enraptures Phillip as he describes her complexion as ‘green’. She is shallow, boring, selfish, promiscuous and stupid and yet Phillip’s passion for her is as great as his hatred of these very traits.
This madness that grips Phillip makes this an uncomfortable read at times. We can only watch on passively as the hero fritters away his small inheritance on the gold-digging waitress. This is a large book in both length and depth and the discussions and musings on Art, religion and philosophy are particularly engrossing and become more so as Philip’s suffering increases and lends a desperation to his search for ‘the meaning of life’, and it is his painful investigations into these areas that leads him ultimately to his own enlightenment in chapter 106. ( )