and this is the last, I promise (well, from Vol. I of my commonplace book, anyway!) - from two good reads - the first brilliant for its take on the human condition and gender relations in particular, the second just typically pithy/interesting Maugham:
From The Hearts and Lives of Men, by Fay Weldon:
– She wasn't nice, but we can pity her, as we can pity any woman in love with a man who doesn't love her, but is deciding whether or not to marry her, and taking his time about it, and in the meantime making her jump through unkind hoops. [said of Angie]
– Nations which have no religion make do with Art: the imposition of not just order, but beauty and symmetry, upon chaos... [above quote and this from Beginnings]
– Abortion is sometimes necessary, sometimes not, always sad. It is to the woman as war is to the man – a living sacrifice in a cause justified or not justified, as the observer may decide. It is the making of hard decisions – that this one must die that that one can live in honour and decency and comfort. Women have no leaders, of course; a woman's conscience must be her General. There are no stirring songs to make the task of killing easier, no victory marches and medals handed around afterwards, merely a sense of loss. And just as in war there are ghouls, vampires, profiteers and grave–robbers as well as brave and noble men, so there are wicked men, as well as good, in abortion clinics and Dr. Runcorn was an evil man. [Rescue!]
– Clifford was accustomed to handling objects of great value. And there and then he felt, to his surprise, and acutely, both the pain and pleasure of fatherhood – the piercing anxious needle in the heart which is the drive to protect, the warm reassuring glow which is the conviction of immortality, the recognition of privilege, the knowledge that it is more than just a child you hold in your arms, but the whole future of the world, as it works through you. [A time of happiness]
– Men are so romantic, don't you think? They look for a perfect partner, when what they should be looking for is perfect love. They find failings in their loved ones (of course they do! Who's perfect? They're not!) when the failing of course is in themselves: in their own inability to perfectly love. [Revivals]
– If only creativity and money could be separated. But it can't, if only because each artist – be he (she) painter, writer, poet, composer – anyone who makes something where nothing was before, provides occupation and profit for so many others. Just as the criminal supports on his angry shoulders a whole army of policemen, sociologists, magistrates, governors, jailors, prison officials, journalists, commentators, reform societies, Ministers of State and so on – all dependent upon his ability to perform a criminal act – so does each act of artistic creation support publishers, critics, libraries, galleries, theatres, concert halls, actors, printers, framers, musicians, ushers, janitors, academics, arts councils, the organizers of international cultural exchanges, art administrators, Ministers of the Arts and so forth – and the weight can seem excessive, the rewards astonishingly little, and society's expectation that the artist will do it for free (or just enough to keep him alive and still producing) for sheer abstract love of form, beauty, Art, oh Art – while those who are parasitical upon the artist will commandhigher salaries, higher status – oh intolerable, extraordinary! [Surprise! Surprise!]
– It is my ambition to see the word "punishment" removed forthwith from the English language. I never knew anyone, child or adult, who was "punished" and was better for the experience. Punishment is inflicted by the powerful upon the powerless. It breeds defiance, sulking, fear and hatred, but never remorse, reform or self–understanding. It makes matters worse, not better. It adds to the sum total of human misery; it cannot possibly subtract from it. [Peace and quiet]
From Cakes and Ale by W. Somerset Maugham:
- ...I know now that there was a disarming frankness in her manner that put one at one’s ease. She talked with a kind of eagerness, like a child bubbling over with the zest of life, and her eyes were lit all the time by her engaging smile. I did not know why I liked it. I should say it was a little sly, if slyness were not a displeasing quality; it was too innocent to be sly. It was mischievous rather, like that of a child that has done something that he thinks funny but is quite well aware that you will think rather naughty; he knows all the same that you won’t be really cross and if you don’t find out about it quickly he’ll come and tell you himself. But of course then I only knew that her smile made me feel at home. (the narrator, speaking of Rosie - p55)
- “I dare say she’s been no worse than plenty of others if the truth was only known. She ‘ad more temptation than most, and I dare say a lot of them as blame her would ‘ave been no better than what she was if they’d ‘ad the opportunity.” (Mary-Ann, speaking of Rosie, p73)
- The crown of literature is poetry. It is its end and aim. It is the sublimest activity of the human mind. It is the achievement of beauty. The writer of prose can only step aside when the poet passes; he makes the best of us look like a piece of cheese.... (the narrator, p123)
- ...her silence was intimate and comfortable. It did not exclude you from thoughts that engaged her apart from you; it included you in a pervasive well-being. (the narrator, speaking of Rosie again, p138)
