I wonder whether an artist of any kind can be said to long for success. Success is something it would seem great artists would wish to avoid, as their greatness to many is defined--if not measured--at least in part by their lack of success. Great artists are not successful; their work isn't admired during their lifetimes, or sought, and most of all not bought. This appears to be a condition precedent to greatness in an artist.
I refer to artists of all kinds, to painters, writers, composers, musicians. The quality of art is thought to increase with failure in life. Those unfortunate artists who succeed must do so because they appeal to those having money and willing to spend it, i.e. to Philistines. Philistines necessarily are without the ability to discern great art and are instead attracted to the banal, the clichéd, the sentimental and, worse yet, the bourgeois.
So at least is the conceit of many an unsuccessful artist, I would guess, and of those who discover them after they've suffered through life in poverty or enslaved by drugs or as misunderstood genius-deviants-criminals. It's curious that the tortured artist has become something of a cliché. Perhaps the successful artist will come to be lauded and his/her work sought after, and will even be considered great when the artist has passed beyond the allure of genius. There are examples in history. Michelangelo, painter and sculptor, who seems at times to have thought of men and God as being as preposterously muscled as modern superheroes, was a successful artist of his time and is nonetheless considered a great one.
W. Somerset Maugham became extremely successful as a novelist, playwright and writer of short stories. He was a screenwriter too, I suppose. At least, several of his books were made into movies. He was also a success as a public figure, that figure being himself as a well-read, knowledgeable, witty and world-weary literary master, of sorts.
Of sorts, I say. He hasn't been granted iconic status, and has been considered less a writer than the other standouts of the 20th century, such as his contemporaries Hemingway, Faulkner, Joyce, Scott Fitzgerald. Even Anthony Burgess, who apparently admired his work, poked fun at him in his Earthly Powers. Maugham himself pretended (or perhaps even felt) modesty about his work, declaring himself to be in the first rank of second rank writers, or words to that effect. Orwell thought well of him and admired his storytelling and simplicity of style.
So do I. Perhaps he was a good storyteller because he was very well-traveled as well as well-read, listened and observed. He experienced much, and was even for a time with British intelligence, working in Switzerland and Russia after the downfall of the Czar but before the Bolshevik revolution.
He wrote a series of stories about being a spy, naming the protagonist Ashenden. Supposedly, Ian Fleming was inspired by his work to write his James Bond stories.
He has never been considered a great writer. I'm sure there's a reason why that's the case. But I re-read recently his novel The Moon and Sixpence and found myself impressed by the story told if not by the writing. His style of narration is cool, dry and simple, which I find admirable, but the story is a good one as well, although it grows tedious sometimes as he describes the life of an artist apparently based on Gaugin, as related by those who encountered him. What makes the artist remarkable is the fact that he is what would now be called a sociopath or one with a similar personality disorder. He's entirely indifferent to other people, without conscience, interested only in painting. He destroys lives, without any real intent to do so but for merely selfish reasons and is untouched by consequences to others.
Of course, his art isn't appreciated during his life, but he's considered a genius after his death. He destroys his greatest work, apparently content to have done it but not wanting it to be seen by others. I wonder if Maugham was having a bit of fun with the idea of what it means to be a great artist, portraying him as a kind of seductive monster, as inhuman, and telling his reader that he's happy not to be a great artist himself, and the reader should be happy for it as well. Telling his reader that great artists are not admirable, but merely sick. They're not content to be tortured themselves by life, but wish also to torture those they know. Perhaps one doesn't have to be tortured to be a great artist. Instead, one must torture.
I think of Maugham as being similar to Graham Greene. They have the same interest in far away places and in the grotesque aspects of human nature. They both tell a good story. Somehow it's enough, for me. To what extent is it reasonable to expect more? Why be disappointed if an interesting story is told and told well?
Maugham put a symbol on all his books, and that's what is shown above. It's supposed to be of Moorish origin, a charm against the evil eye and talisman of good luck. It brought him luck. I know nothing of the evil eye.
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