The happy man somerset maugham

Yes, yes, I know art and literature is personal and subjective, the eye of the beholder and all that, but human excrement smeared on a blanket is never artistic, and anything written in broken line spacing is not poetic. But try telling that to the literary critics. Posted by Jessa Crispin link Best-selling author Ishmael Beah and his US publisher have stood by his claim to have spent three years as a refugee and then child soldier in Sierra Leone's civil war despite The Australian finding evidence that his ordeal lasted one year, not three. My Journey as an Abortion Doctor at Salon.

The happy man somerset maugham

The brief contact he had with Bhagavan inspired Maugham so much, he decided to use him as the model for a fictional Guru in The Razor's Edge, a novel of his that was published a few years later in Maugham also wrote a non-fiction account of his visit in an essay entitled 'The Saint', which was published twenty years after the event in The following account, which is taken from this essay, records Maugham's impressions of this meeting with Bhagavan.

Short Story Analysis: The Verger by W. Somerset Maugham - The Sitting Bee

In the course of my journey to India I went to Madras and there met some people who seemed interested to know what I had been doing in India.

I told them about the holy men who had suffered me to visit them, and they immediately proposed to take me to see a Swami who was the most celebrated and the most revered then in India. They called him the Maharshi.

I did not hesitate to fall in with the suggestion and, a few days later, early one morning, we set out. After a dull hot drive along a dusty, bumpy road, dusty because the heavy wheels of ox-drawn wagons had left deep ruts in it, we reached the ashram.

The happy man somerset maugham

We were told that the Maharshi would see us in a little while. We had brought a basket of fruit to present to him, as I was informed that it was the graceful custom, and sat down to the picnic luncheon we had been sensible enough to put in the car.

Suddenly, I fainted dead away. I was carried into a hut and laid on a pallet bed. I do not know how long I remained unconscious but presently I recovered. I felt, however, too ill to move. The Maharshi was told what had happened, and that I was not well enough to come into the hall in which he ordinarily sat, so, after some time, followed by two or three disciples, he came into the hut into which I had been taken.

What follows is what I wrote in my notebook on my return to Madras.

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The Maharshi was of average height for an Indian, of a dark honey colour with close-cropped white hair and a close-cropped white beard. He was plump rather than stout.

Though he wore nothing but an exiguous loincloth he looked neat, very clean and almost dapper. He had a slight limp, and he walked slowly, leant on a stick. His mouth was somewhat large, with thickish lips and the whites of his eyes were bloodshot.

He bore himself with naturalness and at the same time with dignity. His mien was cheerful smiling, polite; he did not give the impression of a scholar, but rather of a sweet-natured old peasant. He uttered a few words of cordial greeting and sat on the ground not far from the pallet on which I lay.

After the first few minutes during which his eyes with a gentle benignity rested on my face, he ceased to look at me, but, with a sidelong stare of peculiar fixity, gazed, as it were, over my shoulder.

His body was absolutely still, but now and then one of his feet tapped lightly on the earthen floor. He remained thus, motionless, for perhaps a quarter of an hour; and they told me later that he was concentrating in meditation upon me.

Then he came to, if I may so put it, and again looked at me. He asked me if I wished to say anything to him, or ask any question. I was feeling weak and ill and said so; whereupon he smiled and said, 'Silence is also conversation'.

He turned his head away slightly and resumed his concentrated meditation, again looking, as it were, over my shoulder.The happy man William Somerset Maugham is one of the best known English writers of the 20th century. William Somerset Maugham (), a well-known English novelist, short-story writer, playwright and essayist, was the son of a British diplomat.

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The happy man somerset maugham

“The happy man” by w. Somerset Maugham It is a dangerous thing to order the lives of others and I have often wondered at the self-confidence of the politicians, reformers and suchlike who are prepared to force upon their fellows measures that must alter their manners, habits, and points of view.

Love is the expansion of two natures in such fashion that each includes the other, each is enriched by the other. Love is an echo in the feelings of a unity subsisting between two persons which is founded both on likeness and on complementary differences.


~ Felix Adler. William Somerset Maugham, CH (/ m ɔː m / MAWM; 25 January – 16 December ), better known as W. Somerset Maugham, was a British playwright, novelist and short story writer. He was among the most popular writers of his era and reputedly the highest-paid author during the s.

The happy man William Somerset Maugham is one of the best known English writers of the 20th century. William Somerset Maugham (), a well-known English novelist, short-story writer, playwright and essayist, was the son of a British diplomat.

List of works by W. Somerset Maugham - Wikipedia