A Writer's Notebook

- William Somerset Maugham

1896

1

I don’t suppose anyone’s life is ruled by his philosophy; his philosophy is an expression of his desires, instincts and weaknesses. The other night, talking to B., I got him to tell me the system of ideas he had devised to give sense to his life.

The highest object in life, he said, is to bring out one’s own personality and that one does by following one’s instincts, by letting oneself be carried on the waves of human things and by submitting oneself to all the accidents of fate and fortune. Then finally one is purified by these accidents as by fire and thus made fit for a future life. The power of loving that he has in him persuades him that there is a God and an immortality. He believes that Love, taken on its sensual as well as on its spiritual side, purifies. There is no happiness in this world, nothing but moments of contentment, and the lack of happiness and the immense desire of it afford another proof of immortality. He denies the need of self-sacrifice, asserting that the beginning, middle and end of all endeavour is the development of oneself; but he is not unwilling to allow that self-sacrifice may at times conduce to this.

I asked him to explain the promiscuity of his amours. It vexed him a little, but he answered that his sexual instincts were very strong, and that he was really only in love with an ideal. He found traits and characteristics to love in many different persons, and by the number of these built up his ideal just as a sculptor, taking a feature here, a feature there, a fine form, a fine line, might finally create a figure of perfect beauty.

But it is obvious that in the development of oneself and the following of one’s instincts, one is certain to come in contact with other people. So I asked B. what he would say to a man whose instinct it was to rob or murder. He answered that society found the instinct harmful and therefore punished the man for it.

“But then,” I said, “what if he follows his instinct, so as not to infringe any of the laws of society, but yet so as to do harm to others? Thus he may fall in love with a married woman, persuade her to leave her home, husband and family, and come to live with him; and then getting tired of her or falling in love with someone else, leave her.”

To this his reply was: “Well, then I should say that he may follow his instincts only so far as to do no harm to other people.”

In which case obviously the theory falls to the ground. These, it is plain, are the ideas of a weak man, who has not the strength to combat his desires, but yields like a feather to every wind that blows. And indeed B. has no will, no self-restraint, no courage against any of the accidents of fortune. If he cannot smoke he is wretched; if his food or his wine is bad he is upset; a wet day shatters him. If he doesn’t feel well, he is silent, cast-down and melancholy. The slightest cross, even a difference of opinion will make him angry and sullen. He is a selfish creature, indifferent to other people’s feelings, and the only thing that makes him behave with a semblance of decency is his conventional view of the conduct proper to an English gentleman. He would not cross the road to help a friend, but he would never fail to rise to his feet when a woman entered the room.

2

People are never so ready to believe you as when you say things in dispraise of yourself; and you are never so much annoyed as when they take you at your word.

3

You worry me as if I was a proverb you were trying to turn into an epigram.

Anyone can tell the truth, but only very few of us can make epigrams.

In the nineties, however, we all tried to.

4

“Do you know French?”

“Oh, well, you know, I can read a French novel when it’s indecent.”

5

Cockney.

“You are a ’andsome woman.” “Yes, abaht the feet.”

“You’ve said that before.” “Well, I say it be’ind now.”

“A ’andsome young man with a Roman shiped eye an’ a cast in ’is nose.”

“How about our Sunday boots now?”

“You’re very clever! ’Ow many did yer mother ’ave like you?”

“Yus, I’ve ’ad fifteen children, an’ only two ’usbinds ter do it on.”

“Ah, wot a blessin’ it ’ud be for your family if the Lord see fit ter tike yer.”

“I’ve ’ad two ’usbinds in my time, an’ I ’ope to ’ave another before I die.”

“I do love yer, Florrie.” “Pore feller, wot you must suffer!”

6

A woman may be as wicked as she likes, but if she isn’t pretty it won’t do her much good.

7

“Oh, I should hate to be old. All one’s pleasures go.”

“But others come.”

“What?”

“Well, for instance, the contemplation of youth. If I were your age I think it not improbable that I should think you a rather conceited and bumptious man: as it is I consider you a charming and amusing boy.”

I can’t for the life of me remember who said this to me. Perhaps my Aunt Julia. Anyhow I’m glad I thought it worth making a note of.

8

There is a pleasant irony in the gilded youth who goes to the devil all night and to eight o’clock Mass next morning.

9

At a dinner party one should eat wisely but not too well, and talk well but not too wisely.

10

The intellect is such a pliable and various weapon that man, provided with it, is practically bereft of all others; but it is a weapon of no great efficacy against instinct.

11

The history of human morals is very well brought to light in the course of literature: the writer, with whatever subject he deals, displays the code of morals of his own age. That is the great fault of historical novels; the characters portrayed, while they do acts which are historical, comport themselves according to the moral standard of the writer’s time. The inconsequence is obvious.

12

People often feed the hungry so that nothing may disturb their own enjoyment of a good meal.

13

In moments of great excitement the common restraints of civilisation lose their force, and men return to the old law of a tooth for a tooth.

14

It is a false idea of virtue which thinks it demands the sacrifice of inclination and consists only in this sacrifice. An action is not virtuous merely because it is unpleasant to do.

15

The life of most men is merely a ceaseless toil to prepare food and home for their offspring; and these enter the world to perform exactly the same offices as their progenitors.

16

The more intelligent a man is the more capable is he of suffering.

17

If women exhibit less emotion at pain it does not prove that they bear it better, but rather that they feel it less.

18