From The Yellow Streak, a short story about a cowardly act of a 'secretly-half-cast Englishman who hates half-casts':
He had been a success. He played games well, he was strong and a good athlete... He was an asset at parties and and his cheeriness made things go. He ought to have been happy and he was wretched.
Further reading of the master shows the wretchedness in only seeing the wretchedness of people. Whatever you're trying to do, its ineffectual without love, love for what you do and the people living their lives around you. And Maugham is a perfect example, I've delighted in dipping my nose into his pages every spare moment I've had lately, and what's blatantly obvious is his sheer love of the simple act of storytelling.
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