Rewards
of a Writer
The moral I draw is that the
writer should seek his reward in the pleasure of his work and in release from
the burden of his thought and indifferent to aught else, care nothing for
praise or censure, failure or success.
Sympathy:
Virtue often misused
… Mrs. Strickland had the
gift of sympathy. It is a charming faculty, but one often abused by those who
are conscious of its possession: for there is something ghoulish in the avidity
with which they will ponce upon the misfortune of their friends so that they
may exercise their dexterity. It gushes forth like an oil-well, and the
sympathetic pour out their sympathy with an abandon that is sometimes
embarrassing to their victims. There are bosoms on which so many tears have
been shed that I cannot bedew them with mine. Mrs. Strickland used her
advantage with tact. You felt that you obliged her by accepting her sympathy.
Value
of Opinion of Others
When people say they do not
care what others think of them, for the most part they deceive themselves.
Generally they mean only that they will do as they choose in the confidence
that no one will know their vagaries; and at utmost only that they are willing
to act contrary to the opinion of majority because they are supported by the
approval of their neighbours. It is not difficult to be unconventional in the
eyes of the world when you unconventionality is but the convention of your set.
It affords you then an inordinate amount of self-esteem. You have the satisfaction
of courage without the inconvenience of danger. But the desire for approbation
is perhaps the most deeply seated instinct of civilized man. No one runs so
hurriedly to the cover of respectability as the unconventional woman who has
exposed herself to the slings and arrows of outraged propriety. I do not
believe the people who tell me they do not care a row of pins for the opinion
of their fellows. It is the bravado of ignorance. They mean only that they do
not fear reproaches for peccadillos which they are convinced none will
discover.
But here was a man who
sincerely did not mind what people thought of him, and so convention had no
hold on and so convention had no hold on him; he was like a wrestler whose body
is oiled; you could not get a grip on him; it gave him a freedom which was an
outrage.
Need
for Approval
I take it that conscience is
the guardian in the individual of the rules which the community has evolved for
its own preservation. It is the policeman in all our hearts, set there to watch
that we do not break its laws. It is the spy seated in the central stronghold
of the ego. Man's desire for the approval of his fellows is so strong, his
dread of their censure so violent, that he himself has brought his enemy within
his gates; and it keeps watch over him, vigilant always in the interests of its
master to crush any half-formed desire to break away from the herd.
Effect
of Suffering
It is not true that
suffering ennobles the character; happiness does that sometimes, but suffering,
for the most part, makes men petty and vindictive.
Beauty:
What is it?
"Why should you think
that beauty , which is the most precious thing in the world, lies like a stone
on the beach for the careless passer-by to pick up idly? Beauty is something
wonderful and strange that the artist fashions out of the chaos of the world in
the torment of his soul. And when he has made it, it is not given to all to
know it. To recognize it you must repeat the adventure of the artist. It is a
melody that he sings to you, and to hear it again in your own heart you want
knowledge and sensitiveness and imagination."
Love:
its effect
Love is absorbing; it takes
the lover out of himself; the most clear-sighted, though he may know, cannot
realise that his love will cease; it gives body to what he knows is illusion,
and, knowing it is nothing else, he loves it better than reality. It makes a
man a little more than himself , and at the same time a little less. He ceases
to be himself. He is no longer an individual, but a thing, an instrument to
some purpose foreign to his ego. Love is never quite devoid of sentimentality…
Moral
Indignation & Sense of Humour
I am a little shy of any
assumption of moral indignation; there is always in it an element of
self-satisfaction which makes it awkward to anyone who has a sense of humour.
Beauty:
an abused word
… people talk of beauty
lightly, and having no feeling for words, they use that one carelessly, so that
it loses its force; and the thing it stands for, sharing its name with a
hundred trivial objects, is deprived of dignity. They call beautiful a dress, a
dog, a sermon; and when they are face to face with Beauty cannot recognise it.
The false emphasis with which they try to deck their worthless thoughts blunts
their susceptibilities. Like the charlatan who counterfeits a spiritual force
he has sometimes felt, they lose the power they have abused.
Until long habit has blunted
the sensibility, there is something disconcerting to the writer in the instinct
which causes him to take an interest in the singularities of human nature so
absorbing that his moral sense is powerless against it. He recognizes in
himself an artistic satisfaction in the contemplation of evil which a little
startles him; but sincerity forces him to confess that the disapproval he feels
for certain actions is not nearly so strong as his curiosity in their reasons.
The character of a scoundrel, logical and complete, has a fascination for his
creator which is an outrage to law and order . I expect that Shakespeare
devised Iago with a gusto which he never knew when , weaving moonbeams with his
fancy, he imagined Desdemona. It may be that in his rogues the writer gratifies
instincts deep-rooted in him, which the manners and customs of a civilized
world have forced back to the mysterious recesses of the subconscious. In
giving to the character of his invention flesh and bones he is giving life to
that part of himself which finds no other means of expression. His satisfaction
is a sense of liberation.
The writer is more concerned
to know than to judge.
Unconsciously, perhaps, we
treasure the power we have over people by their regard for our opinion of them,
and we hate those upon whom we have no such influence. I suppose it is the
bitterest wound to human pride.
Moon and Sixpence
W. Somerset Maugham
