For some reason, I always supposed that Maugham must be an obscenely boring modernist of the E. M. Forster ilk, and so never bothered to read him, but I decided to pick this up on a whim and I absolutely loved it. I've complained on this blog several times that many authors just can't make me believe in their characters, they just turn out lifeless. Maugham is exactly the opposite of this, he has some of the most vivid characters I've ever read about. All of them are so incredibly alive, I felt like I knew all of them at once. He also has wonderfully beautiful and moving descriptions and style, in general, everything I love to read. The attitude expressed towards women by his characters leaves, to put it mildly, much to be desired, but I couldn't stay whether that is Maugham's own attitude, and that's probably the only thing I have to complain about in this book. The depiction of the inhuman genius, Charles Strickland, who destroys the lives of those around him because he feels he 'has to paint', is so compelling and fascinating, he's one of the most interesting, repulsive and gripping characters I have ever read about. Funnily enough, I went to a museum several weeks ago which has an extensive collection of Gauguin (on whom Strickland is based) and I was frankly bored, while my mother went into raptures. Now I feel like Maugham explained the charm of his art to me, and I would love to go back to that museum and look at them. I'm so impressed with the characters, and the story, and the writing, that now I just want to read more books by Maugham so much, and think it's a real shame he's been for the most part forgotten these days.
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