orah Nesbit it strikes one as
strange....

"One feels as though one were sitting before a splendid Shiraz or
Daghestan of priceless texture and intricate weave, admiring, feeling,
responding sensually to its colours and tones. Mr. Maugham ... has
suffered for the joy of the many who are to read after him. By no willing
of his own he has been compelled to take life by the hand and go down
where there has been little save sorrow and degradation. The cup of gall
and wormwood has obviously been lifted to his lips and to the last drop he
has been compelled to drink it. Because of this, we are enabled to see the
rug, woven of the tortures and delights of a life. We may actually walk
and talk with one whose hands and feet have been pierced with nails."

=iii=

I turn, for a different example of the heterogeneous magic of Maugham,
including his ability to create and sustain a mood in his readers, to the
words of Mr. MacQuarrie, who writes:

"It was Tahiti. With a profound trust in my discretion, or perhaps an
utter ignorance of the homely fact that people have their feelings, a
London friend sent us a copy of _The Moon and_ _Sixpence_. This friend,
actually a beautiful, well set up woman of the intelligent class in
England (which is more often than not the upper fringes or spray of the
_bourgeoisie_), wrote: 'You will be interested in this book, since quite
the most charming portion of it deals with your remote island of Tahiti. I
met the author last night at Lady B----'s. I think the landlady at the
end, Mrs. Johnson, is a perfect darling.'

"Knowing Somerset Maugham as a dramatist, the author of that kind of play
which never bored one, but rather sent one home suffused with
pleasantness, I opened the book with happy anticipation. Therefore--and
the title of the book, _The Moon and Sixpence_, gave a jolly calming
reaction--I was surprised and frankly annoyed when I found myself
compelled to follow the fortunes of a large red-headed man with mighty sex
appeal, who barged his way through female tears to a final goal which
seemed to be a spiritual achievement, and a nasty death in a native
_fare_. I was alarmed; here was a man writing something enormously strong,
when I had been accustomed to associate him with charming London
nights--the theatre, perfect acting, no middle class problems, a dropping
of one's women folks at their doors and a return to White's and whiskey
and a soda. And furthermore, in this book of his, he ha