The Moon And Sixpence

The book revisits a theme that Maugham took up several
times - that of an artist completely devoted to his art.
Interestingly, there is no attempt to look for the causes
of the destructive behavior of the main character, or even
to pass judgment on it. Strickland's life and actions
are examined, sometimes in great detail. However, after the author's
initial disapprobation, he comes to some sort of acceptance of
Strickland strange way of life.

W. Somerset Maugham is best when he writes about
relationships. While this book seems a bit forced at times,
Maugham had such a unique view of the topic that always makes
his writing interesting.

W. Somerset Maugham's _The Moon and Sixpence_ (1919) poses two principal questions. First, what responsibility does the individual have to the rules of the society in which he or she lives? And more specifically, what responsibility does the person of genuis--whether it be in the arts, science, or spirituality, etc.--have to society? While the artist and anithero Charles Strickland is not in the strictest sense a law breaker--although he does have, at least, technically a bigamous relationship--he breaks social conventions relentlessly.

The narrator of the novel, a writer and artist himself who attempts to write Strickland's biography, cannot resolve these questions. A search for answers impels him to write the biography. The narrator suspects throughout his writing that his underlying disapproval of Strickland's life is based on sentimentality rather than pure morality, yet he can neither adopt nor accept Strickland's way of life.

Early in the book, the narrator asks Strickland about his views on German philosopher Emmanuel Kant's categorical imperative: "Act so that every one of your actions is capable of being made into a universal rule." Kant's statement, a classic dictum in Western ethical philosophy, does not register with Strickland. He replies, "I never heard it before, but it's rotten nonsense." Adopting the inverse of this in which the individual is the measure of what is right and his self-expression preeminent, Strickland follows his own impulses in pursuit of perfection in art without concern for others' feelings or well-being.

Arguably, the results are mixed. Strickland creates brilliant, original art, authentic to his primal existence, yet the cost is profound suffering for himself and those close to him.

All of the secondary characters, whether the artisit Dirk Stroeve and his wife, Blanche, the enterprising Captain Brunot, or the scientific Dr. Coutras, shed light on Strickland's personality. We see Strickland through these characters. As a result, Strickland is as many identities as there are people to comprehend his life and his art. For example, Strickland's estranged son Robert, a minister, has even written his biography arguing for the deep morality of his father. While the facts utterly contradict this, on a deeper level, the novel even holds this out as a possibility. Faced with the challenge to understand, the narrator admits that if this were a novel he could impute a range of motives to explain logically Strickland's behavior. The man, however, defies such characterizations.

The narrator's ultimate view, and I would argue the philosophical perspective of the novel, is stated early in the book: "The greatness of Charles Strickland was authentic." In other words, the narrator feels that Charles, whatever his faults, has lived life on his terms, not subect to hollow social conventions, and in this he has attained greatness.

Connected with this, Maugham explores the idea that the artist can achieve liberation in art if the artist "seeks his reward in the pleasure of his work and in release from the burden of his thoughts" without concern for public acceptance. Paradoxically, Strickland does achieve fame, and it is primarily because of his celebrity that he is remembered and is a curiosity to the narrator. His greatness is very much tied to his fame.

One weakness of the work, I feel, is the unproblematic depiction of Tahiti as the mythic hesperides--that is, a fecund garden at the end of the world where golden apples bloom. The notion that Charles Strickland was one those men who are "born out of their place" and that his raw attitude toward life is in some way fundamentally Tahitian seems very shaky. It is too naive an answer to the questions the novel raises, simplifying Tahitian society and Strickland.

In my opinion, the novel's main strength is that it demands that readers come to terms with their own views about Strickland and his life. Maugham also deals very frankly with what would be controversial life choices today in 2005, much less in 1919 when the book was published.

It has been noted many times that artists are usually not the most pleasant human beings to be around; Maugham's novel is, among other things, a compelling examination of why this is so. The obsessed artist who dominates this book, Charles Strickland (based on the notorious Paul Gauguin), walks away from his cushy middle-class existence in England to pursue his dream to paint, amid frightful poverty, in France. Strickland is an unforgettable character, an inarticulate, brutishly sensual creature, callously indifferent to his fellow man and even his own health, who lives only to record his private visions on canvas.
It would be a mistake to read this novel as an inspiring tale of the triumph of the spirit. Strickland is an appalling human being--but the world itself, Maugham seems to say, is a cruel, forbidding place. The author toys with the (strongly Nietzschean) idea that men like Charles Strickland may somehow be closer to the mad pulse of life, and cannot therefore be dismissed as mere egotists. The moralists among us, the book suggests, are simply shrinking violets if not outright hypocrites. It is not a very cheery conception of humanity (and arguably not an accurate one), but the questions Maugham raises are fascinating. Aside from that, he's a wonderful storyteller. This book is a real page turner.

If Gauguin, the painter, had been an Englishman, his life could very well have been as reconstructed by Maugham in this famous novel. The main characters are few: the author cast as minor English writer, Strickland or the "Gauguin character", his first wife, a Dutch painter in Paris and his English wife. A number of minor characters give intense color to much of the book and are very skillfully drawn. Not just a biographical novel, which could have been interesting in itself, THE MOON AND SIXPENCE attempts to be a psychological study of an unusual person, a genius perhaps. And there is no doubt---it succeeds. Not only is a fascinating novel that will grip you for as long as it takes to read, it is a major work on the relationship of art, psychology and society. The novel is one of the greatest of a very talented writer. Maugham's overarching question is "what kind of person suddenly leaves a very mediocre, average life as a stockbroker---having shown absolutely no inclination for art---throws over his wife, his relatives, and everything he has ever known, to go to Paris to become an artist in the utmost poverty ?" What makes a man do that ? And how strange it is that he succeeds beyond anyone's wildest dreams. Along the road of explanation, Maugham introduces many an interesting argument between humanism and cold rationality, between those who feel for others and those who only act for themselves.
I like seashells, the treasures of the ocean, but I prefer to find them myself, buried in the sand or lying in a mess of seaweed. I clean them off and they're mine. I never buy them, polished and sterile, from a shop shelf. That is, I don't like getting repeated "nuggets of wisdom", polished and presented to me by an author. I prefer to stumble on them myself, pondering as I go. What I do not particularly care for in this novel, which may put off readers (or, sure, may attract them) is the didactic, hectoring tone (leaving aside the rather misogynistic view of women). Maugham insists on hitting the reader over the head, again and again, with his views... "Suffering for the most part, makes men petty and vindicative" (p.64). "There is no cruelty greater than a woman's to a man who loves her and whom she does not love; she has no kindness then, no tolerance even..." (p.114) "...Man in moments of emotion expresses himself naturally in the terms of a novelette." (p.135). I can provide a lot more examples. Maugham writes a tremendous story, a sensitive psychological portrait of a man who was contrary to what everyone had supposed him to be, a man possessed for years by a secret devil---Art. The author insists that it is impossible to know exactly what a person will do, that it is impossible to fathom human nature. He then fills his novel with endless little lectures, innumerable aphorisms, about human nature, thereby contradicting his own core theme.
It is still a great novel.

A portrayal of an artist who lived purely to paint....A difficult task to narrate his life without romantically glorifying his genuis, or morally judging his apathy to anything/anybody else. Also a hard thing to justify the opposite tendency in ordinary people--us then, and now--to care so much about the opinions of others which "throws shadows of insincerity over the deeply felt emotions". Characters in this book represent various degrees of human relationships with art, beauty and passion brilliantly. Another wonderfully complex and sophisticated book by Maugham.

Beautiful writing. Somerset Maugham wrote with so much feeling it's hard not to fall in love with his stories or himself. Romantic and practical, the author narrates his personal journey with well-known painter "Charles Strickland", Maugham's stories feature their early lives in England, Paris and later Tahiti. Described as a "selfish" man (depending on how you view him), Strickland suffers isolation and no recognition during his lifetime. His advanced art vision set the base for a post impressionist movement, raised Strickland to fame posthumously. I really think Maugham has done an incredibly super job in describing the complexity of the characters in the book (Strickland, Dirk Stroeve, Tarie among others). Thorough and subtle, his characters are believable and alive. Maugham also includes stories of Tahitian natives whom Strickland has made his acquaintances. His dreamy description of Tahitian lives make me want to live there and experience the island's beauty for myself.

After having read `The Moon and Sixpence,' my faith in Somerset's writing as intelligent writing for the masses remains unshaken. The pleasing fluidity that is a salient characteristic of his prose is omnipresent here as well, making this as fast a read as one of John Grisham's earlier works. Somerset is one of those writers who could expound on fluff and yet make a charming discourse out of it. And yet, while reading his candidly autobiographical `The Summing Up,' he almost convinces you that he is an untalented, hardworking writer who has to labor at his writing, with his one shortcoming being that he could never be as fluent as the writers he idolized - I might say that his one shortcoming seems to have been unbecoming modesty.

Coming to the book itself, it is loosely based on the life and work of Paul Gauguin. One of the things I found rather interesting about this narrative is how Somerset decided to name his protagonist Strickland, rather than just Paul Gauguin. While I do agree that Somerset did not have enough first-hand material to call his account a true-to-life account, he had more than his share of literary license to fall back upon to make it past that. I wonder if it was his artistic integrity or a fear of some repercussion from Gauguin's surviving family members that caused him to take this decision (since most of what Somerset had to relate about Strickland was less than flattering, and given the chameleon like nature of Strickland's wife, such an expectation might not be unfounded). Either way, he did not adopt the same style of writing as Irving Stone did in "Lust For Life."

The one lasting impression I came away with was the constant reminder from Somerset that though he admitted Strickland's genius, and admired his labor for his art, he certainly did not like him, or respect him as a human being, which is a juxtaposition of emotions that I don't come across normally in a book that is meant to be biographical in nature.

Another pleasing aspect about the book was the plenitude of quotable quotes issuing forth from Somerset's pen, some of them bordering on the Wildean, in my opinion. I remember one of them being to the effect that a woman is ready to forgive a man for the harm he has done her, but is never willing to forgive a man for the sacrifices he makes for her - the apparent irony of that really tickled me for a while.

I.

Heritage's The Moon and Sixpence features a brown slipcase and nubby beige cloth with brown print.

Parts One and Two of the novel are in contrasting illustrative styles and typefaces. F.D. Steele's pen drawings and Victorian decoration reflect the 19th style of the portions of the novel set in London and Paris. The remainder of the book, set in Tahiti, is illustrated with color reproductions of Gauguin and Polynesian decorative elements.

282 pp, cloth over hardback boards with a sewn binding.

In The Moon and Sixpence, Maugham introduces the artist Charles Stickland, whom we wish never to meet outside these pages. He is a thoughtless and irrational genius, wholly unconcerned about any opinion of his painting other than his own. In fact he is throughly unconcerned about any type of disapprobation. Without using the phrase, Maugham interprets Strickland as an "idiot savant," who is blissfully unaware of any other person's feelings. He abandons his wife and children, he induces a suicide in a lover, and is unaccountably remorseless for these and other trespasses against human decency. It is Strickland's ostentatious remorselessness which turns the reader against him, and his genius isn't sufficient to mitigate our, well, disapprobation. We already knew that great artists don't always have to be great people; what Maugham does, however, is take us to the extremes of both. Therein lies the creative tension, and it remains with us for a very long time after we turn the last page.

Moon and Sixpence is the first Somerset Maugham book

I've read and I'd like to make a few comments, just

because it was so interesting.

As you may have read from other reviews, this

book is based on the life of French painter, Paul

Gauguin. That, however, is not very intriguing. Even

if the story were based on Leonardo Da Vinci, it would

not have been intriguing either. The spark is provided

by Charles Strickland, the stockbroker who turns painter

in the novel. And what a fascinating character! He

quotes Nietchze feverishly, he loathes woman, he refuses

to sell his precious art (his life), he practically goes

mad. And that I may add, in the space of five years

(which is the first problem in this novel).

Maugham writes tough, and unlike many English

novelists of the past, use his words sparingly.

He knows his strengths (which is not descriptive)

and works extra hard into turning this dull stockbroker

into an artistic maniac. The novel is short, but I

couldn't see it go any further. In fact, it could have

done with the whole lecture thing at the end.

Strickland was the subject - not art.

Maugham is witty, and in the end his comic outlook saves the novel. It won't change your life, but it's a page-turner, a good read, and at times, very funny.

The Moon and Sixpence is a short, intelligent, well-written, sophisticated, episodic piece of second-class literature written by a first-class (though not genius-level) writer.

It is not featured on the MLA's list of the hundred best novels of the 20th century, and I can see why--withal its superiority to inferior works that ARE on the list.

Maugham has a very pleasing (though not dumbed-down) style, which makes for swift and pleasurable reading. This book is not as good as The Razor's Edge or Of Human Bondage, but it is not something one would be ashamed to have on the resume either. It's a book that can be read in a day, and which probably won't change your life...but it should enhance you nonetheless.

I read for information on Gauguin and was not disappointed I was surprised by the "outdated" examination of men vs women roles that were taken for granted in polite early 20th Century society in the Euro based world. Be prepared to accept words and phrases that would now be out of place (but like works by Mark Twain very sincere and true to form for the period in which the author writes). Maugham is a master and many lines can be highlighted as memorable to those wishing to understand what can and cannot be said about the visual arts and some of the outsiders who explore the fringes of this non verbal landscape I will include this on my recommended reading list for my upper level art students as an insider look at post-impressionist life.

I won't even comment about the storyline. The author refers to Strickland/Gaugin as a genius several times and you wonder if he just really likes the artist's work or if he actually knows what he was talking about as a critic. If you have ever had the honor to stand in front of and gaze upon one of Gaugin's works, then you can almost understand why he did give up his life. Actually seeing his art makes you realize that his despicable character should be forgiven. He was right in knowing that he "had to paint". There's never been anyone like him that could paint such beautiful pictures or such detailed carvings, so full of life!

The subject was of utmost interest, a selfish man who is thoroughly and well portrayed in this biopic of a novel. I will re-read it one of these days. One of Maugham's best for sure and haunting in that you remember it when you see a Gaughan hanging in the museum.

One of his best works. Maugham uses the first person to tell this tale (as he does with most of his other stories) and there is a sense that most if not all of his writings contain many autobiographical parts. This book is one of them. It is the story of how the life of the writer and that of a painter criss-cross until the death of the artist. The artist is based on the life of Paul Gauguin (the painters name is different in the book, but the similarities are too compelling). If you enjoy 19th century art history, you must read this book!

What makes the book so unbearably boring is precisely its insight: In the recesses of Strickland (a stand-in for Paul Gauguin), far beneath his brutish public trace and gamut of personae, far beneath anything observable, lies an artistic genius that, for most of the characters, isn't even manifest in the artist's work. How's that? It's hard to tell whether Maugham is circuitously disdaining the posthumous and arbitrary obsession we all have with artists or with boyish persistence reaching for that which, though veritable, none of us are great enough to discern and appreciate, a kind of absurd communion with inspiration that necessarily morally outcasts the inspired. Either way, even when Strickland is biographically tethered to history, it's hard to find him compelling, as a man (or madman) or symbol.

This was my first attempt at reading W. Somerset Maugham. The man can definitely write. But the story told here is somber. A writer becomes fascinated with a man who gave up everything in order to become an artist. This artist is a brute of a man whom we today might call a sociopath. He cares nothing for the feelings of others. In fact, he is so unlikeable, that it was hard for me to finish reading this book. I don't buy into the theory that "genius" is an excuse for appalling behavior. This book left me depressed. I don't think I will be reading any more novels by Maugham.

This book is incredible. Maugham's delicious descriptive sense and writing ability are a delight. For anyone who feels like no one understands them (and don't we all?) will enjoy this urge. It will also give all readers an overwhelming urge to create somethig with passion. I suggest you read it and decide for yourself, but you will not be dissapointed.

I am facinated by this book. W. Somerset Maugham reaches into the character of Charles Strickland in a way that makes you want to read on and on. I missed witnessing an avalanch because of this book.......and I don't regret it one single bit!

OK, so the author's storytelling talent is great, he told a counterintuitive story and Paul Gauguin's works continue to inspire a broad swath of humanity a century later .... The novel is not that interesting. The artist is an ass. He cares for nothing. Even his commitment to art, beauty and truth is nothing more than an obsession. The obsession is not well described. The third party commentator approach becomes boring. The characterization of four potentially inspiring locations is weak, almost bleached out. There may have been a time when the artist's courage to provide a countervailing perspective, running against the inertia of the culture, was a heroic act, worthy of praise. Today it seems pedestrian, self-serving, even formulaic. I appreciate many of Maugham's other works, but this one fell flat.

The most striking aspect of this novel, the one that remains in mind long after you close the book, is not the story itself but the psychology of the main character and the way he affects those around him. Lonely without ever realising that such a state exists, driven by an inner vision Charles Strickland has hardly a single endearing quality but like those that do not need others he draws people to his side. It is Maugham at his most cynical, but appealingly so.

"You know," my Iranian boyfriend said one evening as we lay squished together on his twin bed. "I don't think I'm the kind of man who could ever marry an American. I just wasn't raised that way. I always believed that one day I would return home and marry one of my cousins from the village. A girl guaranteed a virgin. As much as I love you, that's just not what you are."

My jaw tightened. I pulled away just enough to examine his face. This wasn't the first time he'd made such a comment, and it was beginning to dawn on me that his tendency to gnaw on my sexual past like a stew bone, to express such apprehension during moments of intimacy, did not bode well for a permanent relationship.

I wanted this man for keeps. I'd burned one too many bridges to be there that day. There was no such thing as retreat, not on this battlefield. And besides, everybody knows that love can conquer all.

Of course we got married. We moved to his country. Had a couple of kids. And before too long had passed, I realized I was in way over my head. He was a conservative Iranian. A practicing Muslim. I was a liberal American. A Born Again Nothing. The two opposing mindsets clashed like a paisley print with florals.

The marriage went up in smoke. Because I was who I was, regardless of the show. He was who he was, the man he'd declared himself to be.

Years after I divorced, I joined the dating site [...]. Sifting through member profiles, I discovered a bevy of interesting men. Some claimed to like baseball, others Harley Davidsons. Some fancied themselves intellectuals, others thrived on yoga.

I clicked on a candidate with an interesting description. An independent businessman who flew planes, studied in Hawaii, an expert on the stock market. Before too long, we began a relationship."You know," he said over dinner one evening, "My therapist is nothing short of a miracle worker. Everyone claims narcissim can't be cured. But she's convinced we've got mine beat."

Flipping through Webster's later that night, I studied the definition of his "former" personaity disorder. Narcissism: the inordinate fascination with oneself; excessive self-love: vanity.

Worrisome.....But wait! He was a compelling man, despite his aloofness. He led a fascinating life, even if it was fictitious. He'd been hurt in a divorce. No wonder he was skittish.Once he realized I was different, he'd relax with me.

I'd play it cool.I'd pretend I didn't care if he were seeing nine other women.

I was falsely casual, he was grandiose, think for a minute, what a fabulous team that would make.

Two years later I cut my losses. He was, after all, what he and Webster's defined him to be.

In between boyfriends, I needed a lift. So, I decided to read my way through a long list of classics. I'd always liked Somerset Maugham, having read The Razor's Edge, but it was his 1919 short novel, Moon and Sixpence, that sent alarm bells off in my head.

Buried within the tale of Charles Strickland-- a middle aged English stock broker who abandons his wife and children to pursue his desire to become an artist-- I discovered a treasure trove of insight into human nature:
"I had not yet learnt how contradictory is human nature; I did not know how much pose there is in the sincere, how much baseness in the noble, nor how much goodness in the reprobate... When people say they do not care what others think of them, for the most part they decieve themselves. Generally they mean only that they will do as they choose, in the confidence that no one will know their vagaries; and at the utmost only that they are willing to act contrary to the opinion of the majority because they are supported by the approval of their neighbors."

So willing to alter myself to win a man over, I was thrilled by Strickland, a character who cares nothing for others. Not their feelings, nor their opinions, not their companionship. Unusual for a sociopath, he takes ownership of his nature. When his lover commits suicide after their affair goes belly up, Strickland disavows all sense of responsibility: "I told her that when I'd had enough of her she'd have to go, and she'd have to go, and she said she'd risk that."

But more precisely, it was Maughm's exploration of Strickland's women, their refusal to acknowledge his ugly self-description, that really hit home for me as my truth.
"When a woman loves you she's not satisfied until she possesses your soul...I saw Blanche little by little trying all her tricks with infinite patience...she cared nothing for me, she only wanted me to be hers...But the blindess of love led her to believe what she wanted to be true, and her love was so great that it seemed impossible to her that it should not in return awake an equal love."

For someone like me-- a bit of a floater, unsure of her own opinions or goals-- a confident man was like the shining North Star.I was sure I'd be all right as long as I followed his course. My willingness to hang on, to ignore distancing statements, was never about love. It was purely navigational.

But, really what I was seeking had nothing to do with confidence. What I liked to label self-assurance was frank ambivalence. And the more a man wavered, the deeper I bit in. Because to win over the indifferent was to prove my own worth.

When a person proclaims something bad about themselves, believe them. Or don't be surprised at the end result.