Of Bondage, Art, & Literature

A.D. Freudenheim, The Editor

If you read encyclopedia or other discursive entries on W. Somerset Maugham’s novel Of Human Bondage, a lot of what you will find are details on and an analysis of the degree to which the tale of the book’s main character, Philip Carey, is autobiographical. This all seems logical, given the many details connecting the author and his protagonist, e.g. (to name just a few): Maugham lived in Whitestable, Carey in Blackstable; Maugham studied medicine, as does Carey; and Maugham had a physical disability (a speech impediment) that had no impact on his mental acuity but affected his acceptance by some of his peers, as Carey’s clubfoot does.

Ninety-three years after the book was written, I find a few other elements of greater interest. First of all, there is Philip Carey’s engagement with art: Philip goes off to study painting when in his early-twenties, which would put him at about 1900 – and in Paris, in a small art school, the Impressionists are much-discussed by Philip and his friends. Here in the 21^st century, works of art by the Impressionists are generally considered staid (if revered) masterworks; exhibitions of paintings by Monet, Renoir, and others attract large public audiences but, relative to the shock-factor of contemporary art, the Impressionists may be considered as conservative as they are (by comparison) old. For Maugham, writing the book in 1914, one might also have assumed that the Impressionists would have become old-school already. Whatever the reality for the author, Maugham casts Philip Carey back in time quite successfully – and it is one of the great joys of this book to read of Philip’s art school experiences, to follow the characters’ arguments about the merits of Impressionism, and to feel the shock that this (now-staid) artistic movement must once have provided to the world.

It is in art school that Philip begins to learn a lot about himself as an adult, in a world of other adults, surrounded by people for whom failure has multiple meanings – financial, artistic, personal, and impersonal. This is more than la vie de Bohème, it is the beginnings of his understanding of how he fits into the world, constructing the philosophical blocks that Philip would carry with him through much of his life. After leaving Paris, as he contemplates medical school, Philip visits his wretched uncle, his legal and financial guardian, and reflects on his Parisian experiences, noting that the “thing then was to discover what one was and one’s system of philosophy would devise itself. It seemed to Philip that there were three things to find out: man’s relation to the world he lives in, man’s relation with the men among whom he lives, and finally man’s relation to himself.” (P. 262 in my 1991 Bantam Classics edition)

As much as the Paris interlude is interesting, it is the life that awaits Philip, and the reader, that is so much more engaging. This is in no small part because of the precision and exquisite construction of Maugham’s depiction of his protagonist’s London life. The story until now has been one of adolescence, but this seems to disappear when Philip enters medical school – and falls hopelessly in love, into a kind of bondage that (in its essence) is something most of us have probably experienced. Moreover, any fan of medical dramas on television will recognize the scenes of Philip conducting his rounds and encountering all sorts of people and ailments, and here, too, it is fascinating to read a story written so long ago that, nonetheless, feels so familiar.

In London – learning medicine, enduring poverty, drawing on his (limited) artistic skills once again, and facing up (and down) a love that has brought him only ruin – Philip continues to try to piece together the elements of this confusing world. Maugham has taken Philip, and us, on a thrilling journey, making both character and reader feel that what we desire most may alternately and variably be considered as happiness, art, success, love, and respect. But at a moment of heightened misery, when things look quite bleak, Philip gains some insight:

“Philip thought that in throwing over the desire for happiness he was casting aside the last of his illusions. His life had seemed horrible when it was measured by its happiness, but now he seemed to gather strength as he realised that it might be measured by something else. Happiness mattered as little as pain. They came in, both of them, as all the other details of his life came in, to the elaboration of the design. He seemed for an instant to stand above the accidents of his existence, and he felt that they could not affect him again as they had done before. Whatever happened to him now would be one more motive to add to the complexity of the pattern, and when the end approached he would rejoice in its completion. It would be a work of art, and it would be none the less beautiful because he alone knew of its existence, and with his death it would at once cease to be.” (P. 542)

To me, this summarizes the beauty of Maugham’s novel, both for the clarity of his language and for his philosophical and artistic insight. We live in a culture that seeks, endlessly, to prioritize and fetishize, to identify the thing from which our present should derive its meaning and to grab onto the thing without which our present would be meaningless. This process provides, indeed guarantees, its own kind of emptiness, a constant searching that rarely permits true reflection, let alone acceptance or, in the end, happiness. It may or may not have been strongly autobiographical, but Of Human Bondage (as its title suggests) has elements of a biography of humanity. Which is why, ninety-three years later, as much as our world may have changed, this book remains so fresh, so relevant, and so enjoyable.