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Quote by W. Somerset Maugham

Work

The Painted Veil

The Painted Veil is a novel by W. Somerset Maugham, first published in 1925. It follows the story of Kitty Fane, a young and frivolous woman who marries a reserved bacteriologist, Walter, and moves with him to Hong Kong. After engaging in an affair, she is forced to accompany her husband to a remote Chinese village ravaged by a cholera epidemic. There, amid suffering and isolation, Kitty confronts her own flaws and undergoes a profound transformation, exploring themes of love, betrayal, redemption, and the search for meaning. The novel is known for its vivid portrayal of early 20th-century China and its psychological depth. more

Author

W. Somerset Maugham
W. Somerset Maugham

W. Somerset Maugham was a British playwright known for his sharp wit and insightful portrayal of human nature. Born on January 25, 1874, and passing away on December 16, 1965, Maugham's plays often delved into the complexities of human relationships and the social dynamics of his era. more

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“The happening and telling are very different things. This doesn’t mean that the story isn’t true, only that I honestly don’t know anymore if I really remember it or only remember how to tell it. Language does this to our memories, simplifies, solidifies, codifies, mummifies. An off-told story is like a photograph in a family album. Eventually it replaces the moment it was meant to capture.”

“It felt as if we'd been to war together. Deep in a jungle, alone, I had relied on them, these strangers. They'd held me up in ways only people could. When it was over, an ending never felt like an ending, only an exhausted draw, we went our separate ways. Be we were bonded forever by the history of it, the simple fact they'd seen the raw side of me and me of them, a side no one, not even closest friends or family had ever seen before, or probably ever would.”

“The world is quieter now. It is never quiet, but it can get quieter. What strange creatures we are, to find silence peaceful, when permanent silence is the thing we most dread. Nighttime is not that. Nighttime still rustles, still creaks and whispers and trembles in its throat. It is not darkness we fear, but our own helplessness within it. How merciful to have been granted the other senses.”