The meaning (of life) is useless unless you discover it for yourself.
W. Somerset Maugham’s 1915 semi-autobiographical novel is no breezy read at 712 pages (or 28 hours on Audible), yet despite being written over a century ago, it ranks 66th on the Modern Library’s list of the best novels of all time. Perhaps most memorable as the miserably misguided love affair of a kind-hearted cripple, it is more importantly a journey of self-actualization. Orphaned at a young age and raised by a sternly parochial uncle, Philip Carey makes his way from accountant to artist to doctor, gentleman to pauper, and Anglican to atheist in a richly varied life he compares to the tapestry of a Persian rug. Along the way he befriends intellectuals and Bohemians from all strata of society while alternately pursing and dodging the most exasperating woman imaginable.
Addressing such universal themes as unrequited love, addiction, the treachery and charity of friends, and greedy deathbed vigils, this is a three-decade journey of philosophical introspection punctuated by foolish choices that leave the reader alternately crying, cheering, and moaning with dread. Each episode of Philip’s life brings observations as rich as toffees. On art: There is nothing so terrible as the pursuit . . . by those who have no talent. On life: The only way to live is to forget that you’re going to die. On love: The important thing is to love rather than be loved.
The 1934 film version made Bette Davis a star, playing Philip’s (Leslie Howard’s) beloved Mildred in a relationship that is doomed from start https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8aaqYIKUKaI to finish https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8g-w5cuWI5o and proves that though all things human are transitory, human nature itself hasn’t changed in a century.