Cakes and Ale is unlike the Maugham novels I've read so far: it's piercingly satiric and told in a more roundabout, meandering way than, say, Of Human Bondage, The Razor's Edge, or The Moon and Sixpence. That being said, Maugham never fails to delight and this is no exception.
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The story is narrated by a successful middle-aged writer named William Ashenden, Maugham's fictitious alter ego. He's contacted by a mediocre author of his acquaintance, Alroy Kear, with a request: Alroy has been commissioned to pen the official biography of the late and lionized novelist Edward Driffield by the second Mrs. Driffield, his legacy-building widow. Knowing Ashenden was friendly with Driffield as a boy, Alroy hopes he can plunder Ashenden's memories of the celebrated author from his youth. Many of these recollections involve the scandalous Rosie Driffield (née Gann), Driffield's first wife. However, the second Mrs. Driffield wants no mention of Rosie in her late husband's biography—Rosie is the "skeleton in the closet," the alternative title of this novel.
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Cakes and Ale shines in a few areas. Rosie, with her ethereal beauty, unquenchable sexual appetite, and joyous nature, is a heroine that's hard to forget, and she's brought to life by Maugham's lyrical descriptions ("She glowed, but palely, like the moon rather than the sun, or if it was the sun it was like the sun in the white mist of dawn"). Maugham also succeeds in creating an unmistakable and unforgettable sense of place. The flashbacks to Willie's boyhood in the fictional seaside town of Blackstable paint a charmingly nostalgic and amusing portrait of youth—I can easily picture myself riding my bicycle next to him with the carefree excitement of adolescence, joining him in his giddy rebellions. Furthermore, as a testament to Maugham's skill, poetic descriptions and passages are intermixed seamlessly with satiric jabs at literary London and provincial snobbery. While Rosie is the subject of conservative opprobrium and a "fallen woman," she is bubbling with life, enjoying her "cakes and ale," and is the true source of Driffield's genius. Maugham’s rebellious message appears to be the one repeated in many of his novels: we’re not here for long, why pass judgment on others instead of living life according to the pattern you find most beautiful?
Cakes and Ale is unlike the Maugham novels I've read so far: it's piercingly satiric and told in a more roundabout, meandering way than, say, Of Human Bondage, The Razor's Edge, or The Moon and Sixpence. That being said, Maugham never fails to delight and this is no exception.
‍
The story is narrated by a successful middle-aged writer named William Ashenden, Maugham's fictitious alter ego. He's contacted by a mediocre author of his acquaintance, Alroy Kear, with a request: Alroy has been commissioned to pen the official biography of the late and lionized novelist Edward Driffield by the second Mrs. Driffield, his legacy-building widow. Knowing Ashenden was friendly with Driffield as a boy, Alroy hopes he can plunder Ashenden's memories of the celebrated author from his youth. Many of these recollections involve the scandalous Rosie Driffield (née Gann), Driffield's first wife. However, the second Mrs. Driffield wants no mention of Rosie in her late husband's biography—Rosie is the "skeleton in the closet," the alternative title of this novel.
‍
Cakes and Ale shines in a few areas. Rosie, with her ethereal beauty, unquenchable sexual appetite, and joyous nature, is a heroine that's hard to forget, and she's brought to life by Maugham's lyrical descriptions ("She glowed, but palely, like the moon rather than the sun, or if it was the sun it was like the sun in the white mist of dawn"). Maugham also succeeds in creating an unmistakable and unforgettable sense of place. The flashbacks to Willie's boyhood in the fictional seaside town of Blackstable paint a charmingly nostalgic and amusing portrait of youth—I can easily picture myself riding my bicycle next to him with the carefree excitement of adolescence, joining him in his giddy rebellions. Furthermore, as a testament to Maugham's skill, poetic descriptions and passages are intermixed seamlessly with satiric jabs at literary London and provincial snobbery. While Rosie is the subject of conservative opprobrium and a "fallen woman," she is bubbling with life, enjoying her "cakes and ale," and is the true source of Driffield's genius. Maugham’s rebellious message appears to be the one repeated in many of his novels: we’re not here for long, why pass judgment on others instead of living life according to the pattern you find most beautiful?
Cakes and Ale is unlike the Maugham novels I've read so far: it's piercingly satiric and told in a more roundabout, meandering way than, say, Of Human Bondage, The Razor's Edge, or The Moon and Sixpence. That being said, Maugham never fails to delight and this is no exception.
‍
The story is narrated by a successful middle-aged writer named William Ashenden, Maugham's fictitious alter ego. He's contacted by a mediocre author of his acquaintance, Alroy Kear, with a request: Alroy has been commissioned to pen the official biography of the late and lionized novelist Edward Driffield by the second Mrs. Driffield, his legacy-building widow. Knowing Ashenden was friendly with Driffield as a boy, Alroy hopes he can plunder Ashenden's memories of the celebrated author from his youth. Many of these recollections involve the scandalous Rosie Driffield (née Gann), Driffield's first wife. However, the second Mrs. Driffield wants no mention of Rosie in her late husband's biography—Rosie is the "skeleton in the closet," the alternative title of this novel.
‍
Cakes and Ale shines in a few areas. Rosie, with her ethereal beauty, unquenchable sexual appetite, and joyous nature, is a heroine that's hard to forget, and she's brought to life by Maugham's lyrical descriptions ("She glowed, but palely, like the moon rather than the sun, or if it was the sun it was like the sun in the white mist of dawn"). Maugham also succeeds in creating an unmistakable and unforgettable sense of place. The flashbacks to Willie's boyhood in the fictional seaside town of Blackstable paint a charmingly nostalgic and amusing portrait of youth—I can easily picture myself riding my bicycle next to him with the carefree excitement of adolescence, joining him in his giddy rebellions. Furthermore, as a testament to Maugham's skill, poetic descriptions and passages are intermixed seamlessly with satiric jabs at literary London and provincial snobbery. While Rosie is the subject of conservative opprobrium and a "fallen woman," she is bubbling with life, enjoying her "cakes and ale," and is the true source of Driffield's genius. Maugham’s rebellious message appears to be the one repeated in many of his novels: we’re not here for long, why pass judgment on others instead of living life according to the pattern you find most beautiful?
Cakes and Ale is unlike the Maugham novels I've read so far: it's piercingly satiric and told in a more roundabout, meandering way than, say, Of Human Bondage, The Razor's Edge, or The Moon and Sixpence. That being said, Maugham never fails to delight and this is no exception.
‍
The story is narrated by a successful middle-aged writer named William Ashenden, Maugham's fictitious alter ego. He's contacted by a mediocre author of his acquaintance, Alroy Kear, with a request: Alroy has been commissioned to pen the official biography of the late and lionized novelist Edward Driffield by the second Mrs. Driffield, his legacy-building widow. Knowing Ashenden was friendly with Driffield as a boy, Alroy hopes he can plunder Ashenden's memories of the celebrated author from his youth. Many of these recollections involve the scandalous Rosie Driffield (née Gann), Driffield's first wife. However, the second Mrs. Driffield wants no mention of Rosie in her late husband's biography—Rosie is the "skeleton in the closet," the alternative title of this novel.
‍
Cakes and Ale shines in a few areas. Rosie, with her ethereal beauty, unquenchable sexual appetite, and joyous nature, is a heroine that's hard to forget, and she's brought to life by Maugham's lyrical descriptions ("She glowed, but palely, like the moon rather than the sun, or if it was the sun it was like the sun in the white mist of dawn"). Maugham also succeeds in creating an unmistakable and unforgettable sense of place. The flashbacks to Willie's boyhood in the fictional seaside town of Blackstable paint a charmingly nostalgic and amusing portrait of youth—I can easily picture myself riding my bicycle next to him with the carefree excitement of adolescence, joining him in his giddy rebellions. Furthermore, as a testament to Maugham's skill, poetic descriptions and passages are intermixed seamlessly with satiric jabs at literary London and provincial snobbery. While Rosie is the subject of conservative opprobrium and a "fallen woman," she is bubbling with life, enjoying her "cakes and ale," and is the true source of Driffield's genius. Maugham’s rebellious message appears to be the one repeated in many of his novels: we’re not here for long, why pass judgment on others instead of living life according to the pattern you find most beautiful?
Cakes and Ale is unlike the Maugham novels I've read so far: it's piercingly satiric and told in a more roundabout, meandering way than, say, Of Human Bondage, The Razor's Edge, or The Moon and Sixpence. That being said, Maugham never fails to delight and this is no exception.
‍
The story is narrated by a successful middle-aged writer named William Ashenden, Maugham's fictitious alter ego. He's contacted by a mediocre author of his acquaintance, Alroy Kear, with a request: Alroy has been commissioned to pen the official biography of the late and lionized novelist Edward Driffield by the second Mrs. Driffield, his legacy-building widow. Knowing Ashenden was friendly with Driffield as a boy, Alroy hopes he can plunder Ashenden's memories of the celebrated author from his youth. Many of these recollections involve the scandalous Rosie Driffield (née Gann), Driffield's first wife. However, the second Mrs. Driffield wants no mention of Rosie in her late husband's biography—Rosie is the "skeleton in the closet," the alternative title of this novel.
‍
Cakes and Ale shines in a few areas. Rosie, with her ethereal beauty, unquenchable sexual appetite, and joyous nature, is a heroine that's hard to forget, and she's brought to life by Maugham's lyrical descriptions ("She glowed, but palely, like the moon rather than the sun, or if it was the sun it was like the sun in the white mist of dawn"). Maugham also succeeds in creating an unmistakable and unforgettable sense of place. The flashbacks to Willie's boyhood in the fictional seaside town of Blackstable paint a charmingly nostalgic and amusing portrait of youth—I can easily picture myself riding my bicycle next to him with the carefree excitement of adolescence, joining him in his giddy rebellions. Furthermore, as a testament to Maugham's skill, poetic descriptions and passages are intermixed seamlessly with satiric jabs at literary London and provincial snobbery. While Rosie is the subject of conservative opprobrium and a "fallen woman," she is bubbling with life, enjoying her "cakes and ale," and is the true source of Driffield's genius. Maugham’s rebellious message appears to be the one repeated in many of his novels: we’re not here for long, why pass judgment on others instead of living life according to the pattern you find most beautiful?
