"Of Human Bondage" in Greece

As the name of this blog of mine suggests it will occasionally discuss fiction, its about time I actually do.

I am attempting a zen approach to book choice for this holiday: the appropriate book for me at that point in time will make itself known to me. And so far its worked better than expected. The "Von Ingelfeld Trilogy" awarded me my most startling coincidence of my life, thereby validating that I was on the right path. "Madame Proust and the kosher kitchen" was not fabulous, but I believe it was necessary for leading me to the next book I read.

I was at a hostel in Cappadocia and was wading through a box of books that I could swap my "Madame Proust..." book for... when I found a terribly tattered copy of "Of Human Bondage" by W. Somerset Maugham. I recognised the title as an English classic but knew nothing else about it. I flipped it open, and the first words I saw were "...Marcel Proust...". I took this as a sign I was meant to read this book, as my "Madame Proust..." book was all about the French writer Marcel Proust. So, I swiftly made my swap and launched into the 600 page novel written in 1915.

It is one of those books that makes you pause every few pages and shiver with glee. Maugham writes so simply yet with a subtle irony and humour that continually made me smirk and even giggle on occasion. Its supposedly semi-autobiographical, and it makes sense, because only if he was writing about his own experiences could he so accurately convey emotions of lust, betrayal, obsession, passion, despair and my favourite of all, joy when faced with beauty and freedom.

In brief, the book is about Philip Carey, an orphan crippled with a clubfoot raised by his indifferent elderly aunt and uncle. He suffers taunts and loneliness growing up, and retreats into a world of fantasy and intellectual pursuits, and yearns for the day he can be his own master. He travels to Germany to study, and then Paris to revel in the bohemian life of a painter, and finally London to study medicine amongst the poverty stricken slums of the south-east. Through it all he falls in love, loses everything, constructs his own sense of morality and faith, and searches continually for the meaning of life.

Its a beautiful book, and I am grateful for the new perspective on life, travel, art and beauty it offers. It is a sublimely appropriate book to read when travelling oneself, with its gentle humour and soaring philosophies. Its one of those books that I will come back to in a few years, and see so much more within its clever prose.

Unfortunately, because I love it so much, I cannot let myself swap it at a book exchange, so will need to invest in a new book... I wonder what book will make itself known to me now....