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I didn't love it as much as I expected. The premise that Eastern philosophy has something to offer us in the West just isn't as novel as when this book was originally published. Maugham's description of upper crust society in Paris is bitchy and wonderfully astute at times. But, like most authors, he found it easier to describe the sinners than the saints. Larry Darrell, the saint of this book, just doesn't seem human or interesting. He and his quest for enlightenment and/or belief in God are one big yawnfest. All Maugham can do is describe Larry's scintillating eyes and his smile over and over and over again and by the end of the book, even Maugham is apologizing for that. Also, Maugham allows himself to be the first person narrator and, as such, does more than his fair share of self-aggrandizing in the book. He befriends prostitutes down on their luck, flies to the deathbed of people he's mildly acquainted with and even pays the funeral expenses of heroin-addicted nymphomaniacs. What a prince. The female cast of characters can pretty much be summed up as a gay man's view of women (Maugham was bisexual, I think, but leaned more towards men) Not terribly flattering or fleshed out to say the least.
Women reading this book should glean three lessons from it: 1)It's not much fun to date a saint unless you get a kick out of living like a hobo and discussing 16th century mystics late into the night. (2) Don't stay engaged to a man who won't tell you where he lives. And finally....(3) Never, ever tell your love problems to a novelist because nothing good will come of it!