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The Moon and Sixpence

Confesso que eu não tinha idéia do que significava o título depois que eu terminei de ler o livro pela primeira vez. Minha ignorância persistiu mesmo após a segunda leitura, embora o título fez sugerir algo como nobres intenções e realidades prosaicas. Antes da terceira leitura, desta vez especificamente para este blog, Eu decidi procurá-lo. Como todos os bons internautas, Consultei Wikipedia, que me disse que o título era uma referência à Of Human Bondage (onde Philip Carey chega para a lua, ignorando a seis pence a seus pés.)

Em The Moon and Sixpence, Maugham narra a vida e as aventuras de Paul Gauguin — um gênio artístico que pisou fora dos limites da ética e da moralidade em um single-minded busca de uma visão desconhecido e perturbador de sua alma (“a lua”) à custa cruel de seus amigos e familiares (o “pence,” presumidamente.)

Sem saber como criar um francês perfeito (como mais tarde ele confessa em O Fio da Navalha), Maugham escolheu “traduzir” Gauguin e retratou-o como um inglês Charles Strickland, um semi-sucedida, embora aborrecido corretor de Londres. Na idade da pouco provável 42 ou então, Strickland decide abandonar sua família para assumir pintura. A necessidade de pintar é um anseio da alma por Strickland, e não importa que ele não é bom no que faz — ainda — como ele explica, “Eu digo a você que eu tenho para pintar. Eu não posso me ajudar. Quando um homem cai na água, não importa como ele nada, bem ou mal: ele tem que sair, ou então ele vai se afogar.” Ao salvar a si mesmo a partir desta afogamento metafórica, Strickland é indiferente (além de crueldade) para o resto do mundo. Então, novamente, ele é tão inflexível e cruel a si mesmo como bem.

In portraying such a difficult anti-hero, Maugham showcases all the mastery and skill he possesses. To my untrained eyes, it looks as though Maugham builds this character so carefully and painstakingly that each one of the monstrosities Strickland commits is counter-balanced in some fashion. It is indeed a fine chisel that Maugham employs in crafting this masterpiece; none of those broad, confident strokes we would see in his later works.

We find Maugham at cynical and misogynistic best (or worst, depending on the perspective) in the early part of the book, especially in his descriptions of Mrs. Strickland and her children. We should condone this appearance of misogyny as a pardonable foible of a genius, I think. More than that, I see it as an effort, a successful one, to balance the callousness of Strickland’s disappearance that soon follows.

Such balancing devices can be found throughout the book. Perhaps to soften the shock of Strickland’s seemingly inexplicable renunciation of his family, his son’s hypocritical account of his later life is cynically ridiculed right in the beginning of the book. The unfortunate Dirk Stroeve, so cruelly used by Strickland, is also a buffoon who elicits derisive laughter rather than sympathy. Stroeve’s groveling adulation of Blanche perhaps serves to iron out the overtones of sexism or misogyny permeating the story. Blanche Stroeve’s betrayal is counter balanced with her own abominable indifference to Stroeve, which, in turn, gets evened out in what she receives from Strickland — “What an abyss of cruelty she must have looked into that in horror she refused to live.” Strickland, curiously, walks unaffected through all this death and mayhem, larger than life, tortured by his own private agonies of the soul well beyond our comprehension and his own. Even in his callousness, what Strickland invokes in Maugham and even Stroeve is, not merely a natural indignation, but an overwhelming compassion — astonishingly. The misplaced compassion is perhaps a device to prepare the reader for Strickland’s sordid and horrible death.

Maugham employs a variety of techniques to make the narration sound natural. If I was a fiction writer, I would study these techniques very carefully and try to employ them myself. To begin with, Strickland is a fictional portrayal of Gauguin, but Maugham takes great pains to pretend that the narration is not fictional. Even the narrator (Maugham himself) is portrayed as fallible, and contritely so, to lend credibility to the narration. For instance, Maugham gets exasperated at Stroeve’s weakness and is later ashamed of himself for getting angry.

The book has its elitist moments. When asked if it was better not to have known, Stroeve replies: “The world is hard and cruel. We are here none knows why, and we go none knows whither. We must be very humble. We must see the beauty of quietness. We must go through life so inconspicuously that Fate does not notice us. And let us seek the love of simple, ignorant people. Their ignorance is better than all our knowledge. Let us be silent, content in our little corner, meek and gentle like them. That is the wisdom of life.” It is as though the gift of inquiry and knowledge is given to a precious few — a special club to which Stroeve and Maugham are privy. This elitist attitude permeates not only Maugham’s works, but all great works of literature; it is only by masking his sense of superiority that an author or a thinker projects himself as non-elitist.

Perhaps it is some knowledge, or a vision of the world that Strickland’s soul yearned to share with the rest of us. Such communication is beyond language — a medium unequal to the task even when masterfully employed. Visual arts come closer. In Strickland’s tragic and cruel plight, along with that of almost all characters in the story, we see one eternal question. What is it that we are really after? Is it happiness? If so, Charles Strickland certainly didn’t find it. Very few do. Is it glory? Strickland did find that, albeit after his death.

Death is the great equalizer. It brings us back to the nothingness we spring from, however high we may fly or however low we may sink during the brief instant in between. The wisdom of the wise, the ignorance of the masses, the grandeur of the accomplished, the glory, the baseness — all matter very little when faced with such complete finality. In Strickland, Maugham has depicted the heights of glory as well as the nadir of baseness. The Moon and Sixpence — perhaps I have understood its meaning after all.

Photo by griannan