Das Moon and Sixpence

Ich gestehe, dass ich keine Ahnung hatte, was der Titel bedeutet, nachdem ich das Buch gelesen Zum ersten Mal beendet. Meine Unwissenheit hielt auch nach dem zweiten Durchsicht, obwohl der Titel tat schlagen etwas wie edlen Absichten und prosaischen Realität. Vor der dritten Lesung, dieses Mal speziell für diesen Blog, Ich beschloss, es nachschlagen. Wie alle guten Internetnutzer, Ich konsultierte Wikipedia, , die mir sagte, dass der Titel bezog sich auf Of Human Bondage (wo Philip Carey greift nach dem Mond unter Missachtung der sechs Pence zu seinen Füßen.)

In Das Moon and Sixpence, Maugham Chroniken das Leben und die Abenteuer von Paul Gauguin — ein künstlerisches Genie, das außerhalb der Grenzen der Ethik und Moral im zielstrebige Verfolgung eines unbekannten und beunruhigend Vision seiner Seele trat (“der mond”) an der grausamen Kosten seiner Freunde und Familie (die “Sixpence,” vermutlich.)

Unsicher, wie man eine perfekte Franzose erstellen (wie er später gesteht in Auf Messers Schneide), Maugham zu wählen “übersetzen” Gauguin und porträtiert ihn als Engländer Charles Strickland, ein halb erfolgreiche, obwohl langweilig London Börsenmakler. Am unwahrscheinlich Alter von 42 oder so, Strickland beschließt, seine Familie zu verlassen, um die Aufnahme Malerei. Die Notwendigkeit, zu malen ist die Sehnsucht der Seele nach Strickland, und es spielt keine Rolle, daß er nicht gut darin — noch — wie er erklärt, “Ich sage euch: Ich habe zu malen. Ich kann mir nicht helfen. Wenn ein Mann ins Wasser fällt es spielt keine Rolle, wie er schwimmt, gut oder schlecht: er hat, um aus oder er werde ertrinken.” Beim Speichern sich von dieser metaphorischen Ertrinken, Strickland ist gleichgültig (über Grausamkeit) an den Rest der Welt. Dann wieder, er ist ebenso kompromisslose und grausam, sich aber auch.

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


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  1. Pingback: Incurable Disease of Writing | Just Write Blog Carnival - August 15, 2008 Edition

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