This is the first novel by Maugham that I've read, and I'm glad I decided to read one of his lesser celebrated books first. It was short, and free, so it was a no-brainer, but it so happens it was a good choice.
I'm surprised by certain things I've read about Maugham's style, that he lacks an original voice, or that his prose is not as colorful as other celebrated authors, that he makes use of convenient forms of rhetoric, speech, and cliche, that kind of thing; because it seems to me that he's just as good a writer as Henry James, for example, while not as lyrical and mellifluous as Galsworthy, nor as expansive as George Eliot. The thing I take most powerfully from this novel is its honesty. It is at times brutally honest. Maugham lays open his protagonist to total scrutiny, allows us to see every feeling, every desire, every thought and raw nerve, and lets us feel the final sensation of claustrophobic moral constraint and helpless entrapment and resolve.
I'm almost inclined to give the novel only four stars, because if I'm honest myself I have to admit the narrative is unbalanced: there is too much 'telly' reportage and probably not enough 'show' ie: graphic description. If it were a poem, it would be heavy-handed and didactic. But as a novel, it redeems itself of its artistic faults by being so absolutely straightforward, and painfully accurate, especially for the period in which it was written. James loathes Mary and is in love with Mrs. Wallace; these are plain facts not dithered over or danced around in the least, in the way they would be if George Eliot had told the story. Had Eliot penned it, it would have been twice as long, beautifully delineated, and we might have been more accepting of its climax due to her authorial command; but from Maugham we get it straight and without any delicacy at all.
Unfortunately, Nature is the way it is, and tragic, pointlessly terrible things occur all the time. One could argue, should it be the job of the artist to bring Nature's losers into the spotlight? We know, as Thoreau had said, "that most men lead lives of quiet desperation", but do we need to open a novel for entertainment and have this desperation and seeming purposelessness paraded before us? Shouldn't we focus on the good, on the brighter side, on the greener pastures of our human experience?
Two years ago I would have said, yes, the artist ought to point to man's possibilities, his meaning, his purpose and intentionality in an ostensibly hostile world and cosmos. And I still do say, yes, this is what artists ought to do. But then again, what of those among us who don't get the happy ending and the sweeping music as the credits roll up? There are undoubtedly far more of those in the world, and in our history, than the happy winners who catch the golden ring and go out with a kiss and a smile and a symphony orchestra.
The Hero is a great and tragic book, and it paints its story without shallow, degrading anti-humanism and mockery. This is not a misanthropic novel. It probably perfectly reflects the lives and sufferings of many, many millions of human beings past and present. Read it.
I'm surprised by certain things I've read about Maugham's style, that he lacks an original voice, or that his prose is not as colorful as other celebrated authors, that he makes use of convenient forms of rhetoric, speech, and cliche, that kind of thing; because it seems to me that he's just as good a writer as Henry James, for example, while not as lyrical and mellifluous as Galsworthy, nor as expansive as George Eliot. The thing I take most powerfully from this novel is its honesty. It is at times brutally honest. Maugham lays open his protagonist to total scrutiny, allows us to see every feeling, every desire, every thought and raw nerve, and lets us feel the final sensation of claustrophobic moral constraint and helpless entrapment and resolve.
I'm almost inclined to give the novel only four stars, because if I'm honest myself I have to admit the narrative is unbalanced: there is too much 'telly' reportage and probably not enough 'show' ie: graphic description. If it were a poem, it would be heavy-handed and didactic. But as a novel, it redeems itself of its artistic faults by being so absolutely straightforward, and painfully accurate, especially for the period in which it was written. James loathes Mary and is in love with Mrs. Wallace; these are plain facts not dithered over or danced around in the least, in the way they would be if George Eliot had told the story. Had Eliot penned it, it would have been twice as long, beautifully delineated, and we might have been more accepting of its climax due to her authorial command; but from Maugham we get it straight and without any delicacy at all.
Unfortunately, Nature is the way it is, and tragic, pointlessly terrible things occur all the time. One could argue, should it be the job of the artist to bring Nature's losers into the spotlight? We know, as Thoreau had said, "that most men lead lives of quiet desperation", but do we need to open a novel for entertainment and have this desperation and seeming purposelessness paraded before us? Shouldn't we focus on the good, on the brighter side, on the greener pastures of our human experience?
Two years ago I would have said, yes, the artist ought to point to man's possibilities, his meaning, his purpose and intentionality in an ostensibly hostile world and cosmos. And I still do say, yes, this is what artists ought to do. But then again, what of those among us who don't get the happy ending and the sweeping music as the credits roll up? There are undoubtedly far more of those in the world, and in our history, than the happy winners who catch the golden ring and go out with a kiss and a smile and a symphony orchestra.
The Hero is a great and tragic book, and it paints its story without shallow, degrading anti-humanism and mockery. This is not a misanthropic novel. It probably perfectly reflects the lives and sufferings of many, many millions of human beings past and present. Read it.
1.28.2013
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