[Illustration]
The Moon and Sixpence
by W. Somerset Maugham
Author of “Of Human Bondage”
Table of Contents
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
Chapter XXVI
Chapter XXVII
Chapter XXVIII
Chapter XXIX
Chapter XXX
Chapter XXXI
Chapter XXXII
Chapter XXXIII
Chapter XXXIV
Chapter XXXV
Chapter XXXVI
Chapter XXXVII
Chapter XXXVIII
Chapter XXXIX
Chapter XL
Chapter XLI
Chapter XLII
Chapter XLIII
Chapter XLIV
Chapter XLV
Chapter XLVI
Chapter XLVII
Chapter XLVIII
Chapter XLIX
Chapter L
Chapter LI
Chapter LII
Chapter LIII
Chapter LIV
Chapter LV
Chapter LVI
Chapter LVII
Chapter LVIII
The Moon and Sixpence
Chapter I
I confess that when first I made acquaintance with Charles Strickland I
never for a moment discerned that there was in him anything out of the
ordinary. Yet now few will be found to deny his greatness. I do not
speak of that greatness which is achieved by the fortunate politician
or the successful soldier; that is a quality which belongs to the place
he occupies rather than to the man; and a change of circumstances
reduces it to very discreet proportions. The Prime Minister out of
office is seen, too often, to have been but a pompous rhetorician, and
the General without an army is but the tame hero of a market town. The
greatness of Charles Strickland was authentic. It may be that you do
not like his art, but at all events you can hardly refuse it the
tribute of your interest. He disturbs and arrests. The time has passed
when he was an object of ridicule, and it is no longer a mark of
eccentricity to defend or of perversity to extol him. His faults are
accepted as the necessary complement to his merits. It is still
possible to discuss his place in art, and the adulation of his admirers
is perhaps no less capricious than the disparagement of his detractors;
but one thing can never be doubtful, and that is that he had genius. To
my mind the most interesting thing in art is the personality of the
artist; and if that is singular, I am willing to excuse a thousand
faults. I suppose Velasquez was a better painter than El Greco, but
custom stales one’s admiration for him: the Cretan, sensual and tragic,
proffers the mystery of his soul like a standing sacrifice. The artist,
painter, poet, or musician, by his decoration, sublime or beautiful,
satisfies the aesthetic sense; but that is akin to the sexual instinct,
and shares its barbarity: he lays before you also the greater gift of
himself. To pursue his secret has something of the fascination of a
detective story. It is a riddle which shares with the universe the
merit of having no answer. The most insignificant of Strickland’s works
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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