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A lot of this book is quite harrowing � you know the drill, young boy orphaned and alone in the world and being brought up by people without affection. Public school nightmares, a child with a deformity that causes him shame all his life.

I was not surprised to learn that Maugham was homosexual, or bisexual, or trisexual � or whatever it was that he was. There are subtle hints to the fact throughout the book.

Young Philip, the central character (rather than protagonist, I think � as there is something of the antagonist about him too) fascinated me. His loss of faith, for example, happens so simply that it had a real ring of truth about it � much of the book is autobiographical and this seemed particularly so here � well, to me anyway.

This was not always the case. There were things that happened in the book where I struggled with the suddenness of his ‘discoveries� � where Philip finally determines the meaning of life from a Persian carpet, for example � the meaning being pretty much Nietzschean pointlessness relieved by recognising life as a work of art � seemed a little sudden for me. I tend not to have such revelational moments in my life, but I guess I should not deny them to others.

His furious passion and ardent love for Mildred � a slut and callous bitch if there ever was one � is all a bit much. But if the definition of a good novel is how often it gets one to call out, “No Philip, not that!� then this is a great novel. Again, I’ve been lucky in that I’ve never loved someone completely in the way Philip does � not in a way that is insensible to how terribly they have treated me and how completely indifferent they are to me. So, perhaps, in this too, I am lesser than Philip.

Maugham defined himself as ‘among the first of the second rate� � Philip goes off to study painting in Paris and leaves when he realises he will never be more than mediocre as a painter � and the life of penury that being a painter would necessitate could hardly be justified if he was only ever going to be second rate. The question � what is art and how does one know one has the gift � is a constant theme of the early part of the book.

The conclusion is hard to say � there is much talk in the book that reminds me of Wordsworth, the artist shows the world how to see and how to feel. But there is also a terrible pointlessness to art. In the end I think art isn’t what one does because what is produced is good or bad, it is what one does because there is no other choice. And for most of us there are always other choices.

Repeatedly, as someone is about to die, Philip is struck by how pointless their lives have been. In the end Philip is grateful for his acceptance of the meaninglessness of his existence � which reminds me of that quote from Stendhal, “God’s only excuse is that he does not exist.� There is a terribly interesting scene towards the end of the novel where this is brought home with full power. It is a favourite ploy of the faithful to think that atheists on their death beds convert to join in hope of salvation. While his uncle is dying, and Philip has been sitting contemplating murdering the old man to relieve his own intolerable poverty, he knows the old man is almost panic stricken at the idea of losing his life. This resolves differently to how I expected � leaving room for the faithful to celebrate at the comfort their faith offers in the end � but it seems a somewhat hollow victory when their own saviour’s last words were � “Oh Father, Father, why hast thou forsaken me?�

The central idea of this book is that life has no meaning � no overarching meaning � that most of life is pain and bitterness and at times punctuated by tiny moments of joy and happiness � and these ought to be accepted and celebrated equally � both the pain and the joy � as part of the tapestry of life. Love is almost impossible and is never equal � it is a sad and bitter vision.

In the end the real lesson seems to be to live in the present. I would have liked to have read this book years ago, I’m terribly sorry I have only read it now for the first time � I would have liked to have read it when I was 18, when I would have had no means to understand it. I would have liked to have had it with me during darker times than this. It was quite a read and I enjoyed it, if enjoyed is at all the right word, very much.