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Rinox
Minor Diety
Joined: Mon Mar 31, 2003 7:23 am
Posts: 14892
Location: behind a good glass of Duvel
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  I'm reading Maugham's novel Of Human Bondage lately, and I'm really enjoying it...it's awesome. A slow start, but the way he describes and observes is marvellous. A lot of philosophy and art in it too...all not earth-shattering, but really cool if you know when it was written. (1915) I liked this chapter...the setting, pace, dialogue and ideas. Just thought I'd share. If you can be bothered, please read it...it only really gets cool halfway the chapter, but I always found that reading stuff in 'pieces' works better.
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Philip soon realised that the spirit which informed his friends was
Cronshaw's. It was from him that Lawson got his paradoxes; and even
Clutton, who strained after individuality, expressed himself in the terms
he had insensibly acquired from the older man. It was his ideas that they
bandied about at table, and on his authority they formed their judgments.
They made up for the respect with which unconsciously they treated him by
laughing at his foibles and lamenting his vices.
"Of course, poor old Cronshaw will never do any good," they said. "He's
quite hopeless."
They prided themselves on being alone in appreciating his genius; and
though, with the contempt of youth for the follies of middle-age, they
patronised him among themselves, they did not fail to look upon it as a
feather in their caps if he had chosen a time when only one was there to
be particularly wonderful. Cronshaw never came to Gravier's. For the last
four years he had lived in squalid conditions with a woman whom only
Lawson had once seen, in a tiny apartment on the sixth floor of one of the
most dilapidated houses on the Quai des Grands Augustins: Lawson described
with gusto the filth, the untidiness, the litter.
"And the stink nearly blew your head off."
"Not at dinner, Lawson," expostulated one of the others.
But he would not deny himself the pleasure of giving picturesque details
of the odours which met his nostril. With a fierce delight in his own
realism he described the woman who had opened the door for him. She was
dark, small, and fat, quite young, with black hair that seemed always on
the point of coming down. She wore a slatternly blouse and no corsets.
With her red cheeks, large sensual mouth, and shining, lewd eyes, she
reminded you of the Bohemienne in the Louvre by Franz Hals. She had a
flaunting vulgarity which amused and yet horrified. A scrubby, unwashed
baby was playing on the floor. It was known that the slut deceived
Cronshaw with the most worthless ragamuffins of the Quarter, and it was a
mystery to the ingenuous youths who absorbed his wisdom over a cafe table
that Cronshaw with his keen intellect and his passion for beauty could
ally himself to such a creature. But he seemed to revel in the coarseness
of her language and would often report some phrase which reeked of the
gutter. He referred to her ironically as la fille de mon concierge.
Cronshaw was very poor. He earned a bare subsistence by writing on the
exhibitions of pictures for one or two English papers, and he did a
certain amount of translating. He had been on the staff of an English
paper in Paris, but had been dismissed for drunkenness; he still however
did odd jobs for it, describing sales at the Hotel Drouot or the revues at
music-halls. The life of Paris had got into his bones, and he would not
change it, notwithstanding its squalor, drudgery, and hardship, for any
other in the world. He remained there all through the year, even in summer
when everyone he knew was away, and felt himself only at ease within a
mile of the Boulevard St. Michel. But the curious thing was that he had
never learnt to speak French passably, and he kept in his shabby clothes
bought at La Belle Jardiniere an ineradicably English appearance.
He was a man who would have made a success of life a century and a half
ago when conversation was a passport to good company and inebriety no bar.
"I ought to have lived in the eighteen hundreds," he said himself. "What
I want is a patron. I should have published my poems by subscription and
dedicated them to a nobleman. I long to compose rhymed couplets upon the
poodle of a countess. My soul yearns for the love of chamber-maids and the
conversation of bishops."
He quoted the romantic Rolla,
"Je suis venu trop tard dans un monde trop vieux."
He liked new faces, and he took a fancy to Philip, who seemed to achieve
the difficult feat of talking just enough to suggest conversation and not
too much to prevent monologue. Philip was captivated. He did not realise
that little that Cronshaw said was new. His personality in conversation
had a curious power. He had a beautiful and a sonorous voice, and a manner
of putting things which was irresistible to youth. All he said seemed to
excite thought, and often on the way home Lawson and Philip would walk to
and from one another's hotels, discussing some point which a chance word
of Cronshaw had suggested. It was disconcerting to Philip, who had a
youthful eagerness for results, that Cronshaw's poetry hardly came up to
expectation. It had never been published in a volume, but most of it had
appeared in periodicals; and after a good deal of persuasion Cronshaw
brought down a bundle of pages torn out of The Yellow Book, The
Saturday Review, and other journals, on each of which was a poem. Philip
was taken aback to find that most of them reminded him either of Henley or
of Swinburne. It needed the splendour of Cronshaw's delivery to make them
personal. He expressed his disappointment to Lawson, who carelessly
repeated his words; and next time Philip went to the Closerie des Lilas
the poet turned to him with his sleek smile:
"I hear you don't think much of my verses."
Philip was embarrassed.
"I don't know about that," he answered. "I enjoyed reading them very
much."
"Do not attempt to spare my feelings," returned Cronshaw, with a wave of
his fat hand. "I do not attach any exaggerated importance to my poetical
works. Life is there to be lived rather than to be written about. My aim
is to search out the manifold experience that it offers, wringing from
each moment what of emotion it presents. I look upon my writing as a
graceful accomplishment which does not absorb but rather adds pleasure to
existence. And as for posterity--damn posterity."
Philip smiled, for it leaped to one's eyes that the artist in life had
produced no more than a wretched daub. Cronshaw looked at him meditatively
and filled his glass. He sent the waiter for a packet of cigarettes.
"You are amused because I talk in this fashion and you know that I am poor
and live in an attic with a vulgar trollop who deceives me with
hair-dressers and garcons de cafe; I translate wretched books for the
British public, and write articles upon contemptible pictures which
deserve not even to be abused. But pray tell me what is the meaning of
life?"
"I say, that's rather a difficult question. Won't you give the answer
yourself?"
"No, because it's worthless unless you yourself discover it. But what do
you suppose you are in the world for?"
Philip had never asked himself, and he thought for a moment before
replying.
"Oh, I don't know: I suppose to do one's duty, and make the best possible
use of one's faculties, and avoid hurting other people."
"In short, to do unto others as you would they should do unto you?"
"I suppose so."
"Christianity."
"No, it isn't," said Philip indignantly. "It has nothing to do with
Christianity. It's just abstract morality."
"But there's no such thing as abstract morality."
"In that case, supposing under the influence of liquor you left your purse
behind when you leave here and I picked it up, why do you imagine that I
should return it to you? It's not the fear of the police."
"It's the dread of hell if you sin and the hope of Heaven if you are
virtuous."
"But I believe in neither."
"That may be. Neither did Kant when he devised the Categorical Imperative.
You have thrown aside a creed, but you have preserved the ethic which was
based upon it. To all intents you are a Christian still, and if there is
a God in Heaven you will undoubtedly receive your reward. The Almighty can
hardly be such a fool as the churches make out. If you keep His laws I
don't think He can care a packet of pins whether you believe in Him or
not."
"But if I left my purse behind you would certainly return it to me," said
Philip.
"Not from motives of abstract morality, but only from fear of the police."
"It's a thousand to one that the police would never find out."
"My ancestors have lived in a civilised state so long that the fear of the
police has eaten into my bones. The daughter of my concierge would not
hesitate for a moment. You answer that she belongs to the criminal
classes; not at all, she is merely devoid of vulgar prejudice."
"But then that does away with honour and virtue and goodness and decency
and everything," said Philip.
"Have you ever committed a sin?"
"I don't know, I suppose so," answered Philip.
"You speak with the lips of a dissenting minister. I have never committed
a sin."
Cronshaw in his shabby great-coat, with the collar turned up, and his hat
well down on his head, with his red fat face and his little gleaming eyes,
looked extraordinarily comic; but Philip was too much in earnest to laugh.
"Have you never done anything you regret?"
"How can I regret when what I did was inevitable?" asked Cronshaw in
return.
"But that's fatalism."
"The illusion which man has that his will is free is so deeply rooted that
I am ready to accept it. I act as though I were a free agent. But when an
action is performed it is clear that all the forces of the universe from
all eternity conspired to cause it, and nothing I could do could have
prevented it. It was inevitable. If it was good I can claim no merit; if
it was bad I can accept no censure."
"My brain reels," said Philip.
"Have some whiskey," returned Cronshaw, passing over the bottle. "There's
nothing like it for clearing the head. You must expect to be thick-witted
if you insist upon drinking beer."
Philip shook his head, and Cronshaw proceeded:
"You're not a bad fellow, but you won't drink. Sobriety disturbs
conversation. But when I speak of good and bad..." Philip saw he was
taking up the thread of his discourse, "I speak conventionally. I attach
no meaning to those words. I refuse to make a hierarchy of human actions
and ascribe worthiness to some and ill-repute to others. The terms vice
and virtue have no signification for me. I do not confer praise or blame:
I accept. I am the measure of all things. I am the centre of the world."
"But there are one or two other people in the world," objected Philip.
"I speak only for myself. I know them only as they limit my activities.
Round each of them too the world turns, and each one for himself is the
centre of the universe. My right over them extends only as far as my
power. What I can do is the only limit of what I may do. Because we are
gregarious we live in society, and society holds together by means of
force, force of arms (that is the policeman) and force of public opinion
(that is Mrs. Grundy). You have society on one hand and the individual on
the other: each is an organism striving for self-preservation. It is might
against might. I stand alone, bound to accept society and not unwilling,
since in return for the taxes I pay it protects me, a weakling, against
the tyranny of another stronger than I am; but I submit to its laws
because I must; I do not acknowledge their justice: I do not know justice,
I only know power. And when I have paid for the policeman who protects me
and, if I live in a country where conscription is in force, served in the
army which guards my house and land from the invader, I am quits with
society: for the rest I counter its might with my wiliness. It makes laws
for its self-preservation, and if I break them it imprisons or kills me:
it has the might to do so and therefore the right. If I break the laws I
will accept the vengeance of the state, but I will not regard it as
punishment nor shall I feel myself convicted of wrong-doing. Society
tempts me to its service by honours and riches and the good opinion of my
fellows; but I am indifferent to their good opinion, I despise honours and
I can do very well without riches."
"But if everyone thought like you things would go to pieces at once."
"I have nothing to do with others, I am only concerned with myself. I take
advantage of the fact that the majority of mankind are led by certain
rewards to do things which directly or indirectly tend to my convenience."
"It seems to me an awfully selfish way of looking at things," said Philip.
"But are you under the impression that men ever do anything except for
selfish reasons?"
"Yes."
"It is impossible that they should. You will find as you grow older that
the first thing needful to make the world a tolerable place to live in is
to recognise the inevitable selfishness of humanity. You demand
unselfishness from others, which is a preposterous claim that they should
sacrifice their desires to yours. Why should they? When you are reconciled
to the fact that each is for himself in the world you will ask less from
your fellows. They will not disappoint you, and you will look upon them
more charitably. Men seek but one thing in life--their pleasure."
"No, no, no!" cried Philip.
Cronshaw chuckled.
"You rear like a frightened colt, because I use a word to which your
Christianity ascribes a deprecatory meaning. You have a hierarchy of
values; pleasure is at the bottom of the ladder, and you speak with a
little thrill of self-satisfaction, of duty, charity, and truthfulness.
You think pleasure is only of the senses; the wretched slaves who
manufactured your morality despised a satisfaction which they had small
means of enjoying. You would not be so frightened if I had spoken of
happiness instead of pleasure: it sounds less shocking, and your mind
wanders from the sty of Epicurus to his garden. But I will speak of
pleasure, for I see that men aim at that, and I do not know that they aim
at happiness. It is pleasure that lurks in the practice of every one of
your virtues. Man performs actions because they are good for him, and when
they are good for other people as well they are thought virtuous: if he
finds pleasure in giving alms he is charitable; if he finds pleasure in
helping others he is benevolent; if he finds pleasure in working for
society he is public-spirited; but it is for your private pleasure that
you give twopence to a beggar as much as it is for my private pleasure
that I drink another whiskey and soda. I, less of a humbug than you,
neither applaud myself for my pleasure nor demand your admiration."
"But have you never known people do things they didn't want to instead of
things they did?"
"No. You put your question foolishly. What you mean is that people accept
an immediate pain rather than an immediate pleasure. The objection is as
foolish as your manner of putting it. It is clear that men accept an
immediate pain rather than an immediate pleasure, but only because they
expect a greater pleasure in the future. Often the pleasure is illusory,
but their error in calculation is no refutation of the rule. You are
puzzled because you cannot get over the idea that pleasures are only of
the senses; but, child, a man who dies for his country dies because he
likes it as surely as a man eats pickled cabbage because he likes it. It
is a law of creation. If it were possible for men to prefer pain to
pleasure the human race would have long since become extinct."
"But if all that is true," cried Philip, "what is the use of anything? If
you take away duty and goodness and beauty why are we brought into the
world?"
"Here comes the gorgeous East to suggest an answer," smiled Cronshaw.
He pointed to two persons who at that moment opened the door of the cafe,
and, with a blast of cold air, entered. They were Levantines, itinerant
vendors of cheap rugs, and each bore on his arm a bundle. It was Sunday
evening, and the cafe was very full. They passed among the tables, and in
that atmosphere heavy and discoloured with tobacco smoke, rank with
humanity, they seemed to bring an air of mystery. They were clad in
European, shabby clothes, their thin great-coats were threadbare, but each
wore a tarbouch. Their faces were gray with cold. One was of middle age,
with a black beard, but the other was a youth of eighteen, with a face
deeply scarred by smallpox and with one eye only. They passed by Cronshaw
and Philip.
"Allah is great, and Mahomet is his prophet," said Cronshaw impressively.
The elder advanced with a cringing smile, like a mongrel used to blows.
With a sidelong glance at the door and a quick surreptitious movement he
showed a pornographic picture.
"Are you Masr-ed-Deen, the merchant of Alexandria, or is it from far
Bagdad that you bring your goods, O, my uncle; and yonder one-eyed youth,
do I see in him one of the three kings of whom Scheherazade told stories
to her lord?"
The pedlar's smile grew more ingratiating, though he understood no word of
what Cronshaw said, and like a conjurer he produced a sandalwood box.
"Nay, show us the priceless web of Eastern looms," quoth Cronshaw. "For I
would point a moral and adorn a tale."
The Levantine unfolded a table-cloth, red and yellow, vulgar, hideous, and
grotesque.
"Thirty-five francs," he said.
"O, my uncle, this cloth knew not the weavers of Samarkand, and those
colours were never made in the vats of Bokhara."
"Twenty-five francs," smiled the pedlar obsequiously.
"Ultima Thule was the place of its manufacture, even Birmingham the place
of my birth."
"Fifteen francs," cringed the bearded man.
"Get thee gone, fellow," said Cronshaw. "May wild asses defile the grave
of thy maternal grandmother."
Imperturbably, but smiling no more, the Levantine passed with his wares to
another table. Cronshaw turned to Philip.
"Have you ever been to the Cluny, the museum? There you will see Persian
carpets of the most exquisite hue and of a pattern the beautiful intricacy
of which delights and amazes the eye. In them you will see the mystery and
the sensual beauty of the East, the roses of Hafiz and the wine-cup of
Omar; but presently you will see more. You were asking just now what was
the meaning of life. Go and look at those Persian carpets, and one of
these days the answer will come to you."
"You are cryptic," said Philip.
"I am drunk," answered Cronshaw.
_________________
"I find a Burger Tank in this place? I'm-a be a one-man cheeseburger apocalypse."
- Coach
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On uni there are a lot of pseudo-intellectuals who believe it to be a masterpiece, suckas. You're better off reading a good story that's funny, readable and makes you think. 
Somehow, Alladin doesn't sound very Chinese