Messenger of Death

By Alex Markman

A turf war between two biker gangs has erupted, turning the streets of a peaceful city into scenes of Hollywood-style assassinations, explosions, and motorcades to killed gangsters’ funerals. Public outcry, police pressure, media, and politicians seem helpless to curb the violence. In the midst of this turmoil, Claude, an ambitious criminal and sadist, is hired by the Devil’s Knights gang leader, Marcel, for the most hideous job: murder. His hits, thoroughly contemplated and executed, with no evidence left, make large headlines in the local media. Obsessed with revenge against his foe Stanley, one of the rival gang leaders, Claude presses his luck too much in trying to kill this sophisticated gangster. His love affair with Leila, a young and adventurous woman from a middle-class family, complicates his life even more.
The methodical, relentless pursuit of police after him and his bosses brings fruit. Arrested at the crime scene, Claude faces tough choices: death as punishment from the rival gang, death from his own “brothers,” or life in prison. In his desperate attempts to find his way out of a death trap, he stretches the limits of gangsters’ ethics and pays dearly for that.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Asteroid Publishing
• Release date: Mar 27, 2012
• ISBN: 9780981163796

Book preview

MESSENGER

OF

DEATH

MESSENGER

OF DEATH

BY

ALEX MARKMAN

Second Edition

Asteroid Publishing

MESSENGER OF DEATH

2nd Edition

By Alex Markman

Published by Asteroid Publishing at Smashwords

All rights reserved.

Copyright © 2009 by Alex Markman

eISBN 978-0-9811637-0-3

MESSENGER OF DEATH is a work of fiction. Names, characters and events are the products of author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real persons, organizations or events is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Chapter 1

I

August 1995. It was a sunny afternoon, the time when the streets of St. Michel are flooded with people. Hordes of office workers invade restaurants, bars, and cafes, competing for tables on sidewalks and chatting and laughing under the accompanying ring of forks, knifes, plates, and glasses. In a short Quebec summer, clients prefer to sit under the sky, enjoying the fresh air and nice views of the city, while watching crowds of passersby.

A man in his middle thirties entered a small, but rather charming restaurant at the corner of two streets and took his place at the most distant table outside, by the railing separating pedestrians from the clients. He was neatly groomed with a touch of gray hair and a casual, but expensive, dress; he had the respectable look of a white-collar worker. The only dissonance to his otherwise peaceful impression was his wrestler-sized neck, not that conspicuous at the moment when hidden by an oversized turtleneck.

Just coffee, he requested, and the waiter rushed off. This client always gave good tips, no matter how big or small his order, was the waiter’s thought. The waiter had another incentive, too. He was dead scared of this visitor.

No sooner was the coffee served when a different kind of man sat at the table. He had a short and tidy beard and brownish, with a shade of red, hair, which was combed back into a thick ponytail. His drawn, wrinkled, suntanned face made him look like a sailor who had just crossed the ocean on a small yacht.

Hi, he said in greeting, and, after shaking hands, diverted his attention to a young woman in a tight miniskirt, passing by the separating fence. Nice ass, ah? he asked with a smile, as if looking for approval of his taste for female beauty. His dark eyes were alert, as if he was waiting for something.

The question hung in the air. He put a cigarette in his mouth and clicked his golden lighter.

What’s the rush, Marcel? he continued, drawing in the smoke with apparent delight. You could’ve told me about the meeting yesterday.

Too busy with skirts lately, Stash? Marcel asked. Stash exhaled a huge puff of smoke, diverting his attention to other seductively swaying hips.

We work to enjoy life, don’t we?

We do, agreed Marcel with a smile, which had nothing kind in it. So do many others, who we don’t like.

Here’s Machete, Stash remarked. It was an opportunity to change the direction of the not-so-pleasant conversation.

A touch of contempt spread across Marcel’s face as a large man approached their table, unceremoniously grabbed a chair from a neighbouring table, and dropped onto it. He leaned back, making the wood under him squeak. Marcel pulled up a sleeve on his left arm, flashing a Rolex wristwatch.

Hard to beat the traffic, said Machete, explaining his being late, his coarse, rough voice supplementing the obvious absence of rudimentary manners. The waiter brought another two cups of coffee, although only one had been requested, and asked, Anything else, gentlemen?

Beat it, Machete grumbled. The waiter bowed politely and quickly stepped back, like people do at the sight of a rattlesnake. Marcel observed Machete disapprovingly. Machete wore a T-shirt, tightly stretched over large, but sagging muscles. His thick arms—those of a former athlete—were densely wrapped in tasteless, colourful tattoos. He had a dishevelled beard and long, uncombed hair. He looked like a pirate from a sunken ship. Marcel sighed and shrugged his shoulders. It was too late to teach this hoodlum anything. This was Machete, well known in the criminal world by his physical strength and pathological brutality. About 10 years ago, he had earned a black belt in karate. Now, however, excesses of drugs and alcohol had taken their toll on his body.

Marcel did not like Machete. Like a mad dog, this biker resorted to violence, whether it was necessary or not—even when it was detrimental to the interests of the gang. However, all members stayed behind him in times of trouble—as this was the code of the club—especially when tough guys, so plentiful in the underworld, sought revenge. However, Marcel needed Machete. The man was a leader in his own right. He controlled several violent gangs, which served him well when beatings, murder, or destruction was being contemplated.

I was about to say to Stash, Marcel began speaking, that we are at the point when some decisions must be made. We can’t sell our stuff in some areas, like before, because the Ghosts have a cleaner product.

Don’t look at me, man, cut in Machete, returning the grim stare. I told you to get rid of them, but you didn’t listen. Who in his right mind would set up an outlaw biker club without our permission? And you—you put up with it.

I told you before that you’re dumb. Did it help? asked Marcel in false kindness. Machete’s eyes narrowed, but Stash intervened, depriving him a chance to demonstrate the biker’s dirty vocabulary.

What do you suggest we do with the Ghosts, Marcel?

I will take care of them, Machete stated, and lit a cigarette.

You know that they don’t wear colors, Marcel said. You can’t make them out on the street.

Gimme one of them, and I can find out where everyone else is. It won’t take long until all of them are out of the game.

I know only one. Marcel said mockingly. Jason. He’s the president.

Let’s start with him, suggested Machete.

You’ve smoked too much pot lately, Stash chuckled. Jason is well connected with the Italians and Columbians. They do a lot of business together. You know that.

Machete’s answer was populated with dirty words. The meaning of his response was Let’s take care of business, no matter what.

That’s not the way to deal with them, Marcel said. Too much trouble.

Machete uttered a strange sound.

Never heard you bothering about troubles. What then?

We’ll tell them to close the club. Jason will know what that means. For sure, he has tough guys around him, and that’s okay, but he’s the clever one among them. He knows that they are too small. He would understand that eventually none of them would survive. Let’s give them a choice. I’m pretty sure that they are not mad dogs, crazy for a fight. On the contrary, most, if not all, of them are businesspeople. There is a good chance that they will come to their senses.

When and how are you going to do this? Stash asked, as Machete spit on the floor.

Today. I’ve already talked to Jason over the phone, Marcel said. The meeting is in an hour, at 2 o’clock. I have already told everyone in our other chapters that we have a meeting with the Iron Ghosts.

Machete and Stash exchanged glances. Marcel enjoyed the effect of his words. He liked surprises.

The last time they had seen Jason had been at least 15 years ago. Since then, Jason had led a very secretive life and, as the entire underworld knew, was flying high. Marcel remembered Jason as a cunning and diplomatic business guy, who enjoyed swimming with sharks in the dark waters of the drug trade. He always tried first to find a peaceful solution with his foes, and was surprisingly good at that, if one takes into consideration that very few in this business accept a compromise. Jason never used drugs, very seldom used alcohol, and knew well what is right or wrong in the underworld. With all that, he was capable of making terrifying decisions in a split second and executing them with speed and ferocity, which impressed even the most daring gangsters. Marcel was sure that fighting with him would be costly and deadly.

How’d yah find him? Machete asked.

An Italian helped me. Do you have your colors with you?

In the car, Stash said. Machete nodded silently.

Let’s go now. Follow me.

Marcel rose to his feet and threw a fistful of dollars on the table, not waiting for the waiter to bring the bill. He led the way; the other two followed him to their cars. Marcel’s new jeep started with a hardly audible crank. The jeep and the other two cars cruised along the crowded streets. At the outskirts of the city, the traffic subsided and at last disappeared as they entered a rural area. Marcel pulled up in front of a lonely, strange-looking building, hidden almost to the roof behind a high, brick fence. The other two cars parked behind him.

Marcel put on his colors—his biker’s jacket with insignia, emblems, and other imprints of their club. The very sign of all these attributes meant to intimidate anyone who would dare to mess with one of the most powerful outlaw motorcycle gangs in the world.

Almost 2 o’clock, he commented. We got here in time.

They passed through the gate in the brick fence and approached the entrance to a large one-story building, on the wall of which the emblem Iron Ghosts had been painted like a large seal. The guard at the door, a menacing-looking and sturdy fellow, scanned them up and down with a suspicious, hostile stare.

Carrying toys with you? the guard asked. Marcel spread his hands like the wings of a bird, exposing his whole body for observation.

Wanna search?

Go ahead. The guard nodded and stepped aside, allowing the three bikers to enter.

Marcel threw a quick glance around as the door behind them closed with a metal click. The windows facing the yard were large, admitting plenty of light, some of it drawing attention to a bar overflowing with bottles in the left distant corner. Sofas, chairs, and coffee tables had been set up around the floor with a purposeful disorder that was, apparently, meant to encourage casual, informal sitting. Everything was new, of good quality, and sparkling clean.

A skinny man in tight jeans and a T-shirt—he looked less than thirty—was sitting in an easy chair. As the three bikers entered, he got up and gave a brief nod, inviting them to follow him down a narrow corridor. He swung open one of the doors before them and led them through it, his face emotionless, like a stone. Marcel and Stash found themselves in a room brightly lit by fluorescent lamps. Unlike the previous room, this one had no windows. A long, polished table stretched before them, 10 people sitting around it. None of the men looked older than forty; they watched their guests with serious, calm faces that showed more than a bit of contempt. The skinny guide closed the door and pointed to the end of the table, where a few chairs were vacant.

You can sit there, he stated curtly before moving to the other end to take a place beside a man who had the sharp, abrupt facial features of a boxer and dark hair with contrasting white skin. Marcel took the offered chair. As he moved, he observed each set of eyes at the table, testing its owner’s guts with a momentary, penetrating stare. No one blinked.

Jason. Marcel greeted the man at the opposite end of the table. Jason gave a nod in return.

Wanna talk business, I s’pose.

Jason was a leader—an obvious conclusion even by casual observation. But it was the man beside him, the self-confident fellow who had led them in, who truly interested Marcel. The bastard had been examining Marcel with keen interest. Marcel reciprocated, calmly studying the longish, pale face, the blond, shortly cut hair, the icy cold blue eyes, and the small scar that accented his left jaw. Leaning back in a relaxed pose, smoking leisurely, he exuded calmness and confidence. Undoubtedly, this guy was one any leader would chose to be close by his side.

So, you guys call yourselves an outlaw motorcycle club. Marcel started with the heart of the matter. He paused, testing the reaction to his statement. Jason’s expression did not change. He did not say a word. No, a man with a lazy eye, halfway down one side of the table, was first to react.

What business is it of yours?

You haven’t asked our permission, explained Marcel. Someone at the table hissed, as if suppressing a laugh.

And, we won’t, the guide responded matter-of-factly.

What is your name? asked Marcel.

None of your business.

Okay, look, None-of-Your-Business, Marcel raised his voice slightly, hardly able to contain his boiling rage. You don’t even wear colors. Who could tell who you are?

Nobody, Jason interrupted. Neither you, nor the cops. Is that what you want?

Marcel let this question hang in the air. He directed his attention to the fellow with the small scar.

I’d like to talk to you, he said. What should I call you?

Stanley.

Stanley, then. You should know, Stanley, that you can’t set up an outlaw motorcycle club without our permission. You should also know what happens to those who think differently.

Who the fuck are you to tell us what we should or shouldn’t do? Stanley asked, shooting Marcel a look of cold steel.

Marcel turned directly to him with a sudden jerk, his chin up, his right hand stretched aside and slightly back, as if ready to throw a grenade or a knife. Everyone in the room knew he was the president of the most powerful Devil’s Knights biker chapter. Anyone speaking to him with such disrespect should be dead on the spot.

Who the fuck are we? Marcel repeated the phrase, now in a lower tone. His anger had suddenly subsided, and he composed himself, putting on the air of a businessman. After this pause, he added, You should know by now. Wanna know us better?

Better, Stanley echoed, not so irritating but with mocking contempt.

Better, nodded Marcel.

Stanley laughed. A splash of laughter from others around the table joined him. Bikers appreciated the opportunity to show their contempt and defiance to the almighty Devil’s Knights.

Marcel fixed his frozen stare upon Stanley; his eyelids opened wide, showing white space all around his irises. It was the look of an insane, outraged animal whose only instinct was to bite off live flesh. And yet, his body and gestures were calm and reflective. This combination was so ominous and impressive that the gangsters of the Iron Ghosts club gave him a moment of respectful silence.

Fuck you, said someone at the back. All three Devil’s Knights looked at the one who said it.

I’ll remember you, promised Machete, stretching his lips in a hateful grin. He stood up and walked toward the door; the other two followed him. Everyone around the table understood that these guys would take care of business. Everyone smiled.

The guard at the door blocked their way.

Hold on, he said. He looked the Devil’s Knights up and down.

Marcel couldn’t believe what was happening. Would they dare to kill him right here, in the club? Were they that stupid, to start a war this way?

The sound of steps made him turn back. He saw Jason approaching in a steady, unhurried pace.

Let’s talk outside, he said to Marcel, giving a nod to the guard.

The door opened wide, letting them out into the parking lot. Agitated guard dogs, restricted by long leashes, jumped back and forth for a few moments and then sat, watching the group with tongues hanging out. The sun, lingering above the horizon, showed its red edge in the crack of thick, black clouds. Dusk was quickly turning into darkness.

Is this your fucking way to negotiate? Jason asked, fixing Marcel with a glare of malice. Give me an ultimatum? You think we are a bunch of scared broads here?

You know as well as I do that the guys in America press upon me. I have no choice.

Look, Marcel, Jason began, talking in a calmer manner. There is always a way to cut a deal. After all, we can at least agree not to cross each other’s domains.

There is another way of doing things, Marcel responded, and that is for you to work for us. We will give a name to your club, a prospect status, you know, all that. . . .

Move your ass out of here, Jason demanded. He gave Marcel a burning glare, turned around and disappeared behind doors. Marcel had no illusion; Jason’s outrage meant something.

Before opening the door of his car, Marcel turned toward his followers.

The only thing we can do is wait and see what the Ghosts do now. Anyway, none of their club members should be killed without my permission. We’ll set up a special commission, which will make decisions as to who to take care of. Understand, Machete?

II

Claude was slowly coming to the end of his prison term. Placed in the wing where the Devil’s Knights held an upper hand, he had kept a low profile, trying not to jeopardize his timely release.

For the last few days, Claude had stared through the grid of metal bars that covered his window. He looked at the sky, fancying the biker’s life, with its unrestricted freedoms and cruel, dangerous adventures on the edge of survival. He would use his favored weapon, a piece of metal rod, to beat shit out of those who stood in his way. He would obtain hangaround status in the Devil’s Knights club and steal cars with his childhood friend, Hans. Hans was a good thief, but did not have as much guts as Claude. When someone refused to pay a debt for a stolen car or parts, Hans used to ask Claude to educate the debtor in the morality of financial obligations. In the criminal world, when almost everyone was able to kill, it was not an easy task. Claude, however, always got the money he earned.

Finally, the day came when he could take his first steps on free ground again, unsupervised by prison guards. Outside the gate, in the dreamland of freedom, the sun shone differently: it generously shed warmth and welcome smiles on him. A black muscle car, an impeccably clean Mustang, blocked his way. Its shiny surface, throwing back the sun’s rays like a huge mirror, was adorned with polished, black-painted, and chrome-plated parts, the metal emblem of a leaping horse at the front edge of its frame. Leaning against the left door stood a short, lean fellow, his head shaven and shiny like the surface of his car. This was Hans, the only one close to him whom he had never beaten. He wore a T-shirt and worn-out jeans and smiled in unison with the sun. An expert in car theft, Hans knew just as well how to buy cars, fix them up, and sell them. For his own use, he was accustomed to keeping sports cars and taking very good care of them.

They hugged each other, and rushed to take seats and head down the road. Hans stomped on the gas pedal, the motor rumbled agreeably in response with all its 250-horsepower, and the tires screamed, pushing the pavement under them at breathtaking speed. They laughed and shouted.

Where’re we goin’? Claude asked.

To your apartment, Hans answered with a sly grin.

Yer kiddin’, Claude said, and gave Hans a light slap on the neck. I don’t have one.

You have. I rented one for yah. Gave the super some dough. Paid for the first and last month.

Claude uttered his rowdy, barking laugh.

Son of a gun. Do you have any broad for tonight?

Of course. That’s the first thing.

Is there a telephone?

’Course. But why do you need it so soon?

’Cause I have to call my buddy from the slumber. Trasher his name is. A Devil’s Knights guy, you know. Claude spoke casually, as if he were a big shot in the biker’s world.

Bullshit, Hans said. He gave Claude a serious, questioning look, as if to say, you’re pulling my leg, buddy.

No kiddin’. He wants to meet me. We’ll do big business, Hans.

I’m not from the biker’s stock, Hans said. I’m in the car business.

You don’t make much in it, Claude noticed.

’Cause I’m lazy. But I do a good job, you know. And I’m not greedy. That’s why I’ve stayed away from the joint for so long.

Let’s talk later, suggested Claude, looking out his window at fast-running pictures of the road: green, tidy, mowed lawns; tall lampposts; small houses under the sleepy afternoon sun; and bridges with a rare pedestrian moving along their walkways.

Hans turned the Mustang into a rundown quarter of the city and soon stopped at the back of a dilapidated apartment building, where a few rusty, battered cars were parked.

Here we are, Hans said with pride, taking care not to step in the greenish puddle of liquid that smelled like a clogged toilet. There is an entrance from here. I find it kinda handy sometimes to sneak in from the back. Don’t yah think so?

Handy it is, Claude agreed. Hans unlocked the door, and led Claude to the second floor, where he opened the first apartment on the right. Claude was impressed: although the furniture was old and half-broken, it was furniture, nonetheless. The kitchen was equipped with a refrigerator, a toaster, and a gas stove. What else could one dream of?

This is to start with, said Hans, alluding to the not-so-presentable ambience. When you start making money, you can buy something better.

I don’t give a damn, Claude said with a rowdy laugh. He sounded like a mad, happy horse. This is good for me.

Hans grabbed the phone and dialled.

I’ll have a couple of broads here ASAP, he explained, while waiting for the response.

Indeed, two plump, short-legged birds arrived soon, not bad for the first day after three years in a high-security prison, although any would have done for such an occasion, even one from an old-folks home. And a real, beautiful life began: plenty of booze, pot smoking, fucking, pizzas, and Chinese food, delivered from the local restaurant. Two days later, after the crazy smokes and fires had settled a bit, just when he needed a break, Trasher, his former cellmate, dropped by. Claude didn’t even remember calling him, but it didn’t matter; they had business to discuss, anyway.

Trasher, tall and lean, dressed in a black jacket and leather trousers, came in without a knock on the door, which was not locked. Claude reasoned that no thief in his right mind would break into an apartment that had no valuables inside and was guarded by a former con. Claude jumped up from the sofa and exchanged strong, friendly hugs with the guest.

Hay, old buddy, Trasher said, placing a big bottle of whisky on the table with a knocking sound. At thirty-three, he was seven years older, and yet he called Claude old, alluding to years in prison. Life’s good?

He fell into a dilapidated easy chair that complained against such abuse with a squeaking sound of its wooden joints.

Getting better, nodded Claude, settling on the sofa. And you?

He observed Trasher with friendly interest, but with a touch of envy. Trasher dressed well, which meant that he had money. His thin, but long bony nose and dark questioning eyes gave him a hawkish look. His suntanned skin, untidy beard and thinning, receding long hair made him look like an Indian chief.

Not bad either, assured Trasher, with a nod. Not bad at all. Let’s crack the bottle.

Naw, refused Claude. Can’t take it anymore.

No rush, agreed Trasher. He stood up, took off his jacket, and hung it on the easy char. On the back of his T-shirt was a huge sign, looking like a corporate seal, with his club insignia along its edges: Devil’s Knights.

So, what are you gonna do now? Trasher asked, returning to the squeaking chair and leaning back. Any plans?

Naw. Any suggestions?

’Course. Trasher stretched his legs, as if preparing for a long conversation. I’m selling stuff, you know. Lots of money. That’s what I wanna talk about.

Reviews for Messenger of Death

[g33kgrrl · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

This book got a lot more enjoyable when I realized reading on my kindle meant I could highlight parts and write notes such as "asshole!" and "more misogyny" and "OH MY GOD." Maybe this is supposed to be an exploration of genius vs living in society but the uncritical misogyny is just so BORING. Blahdy blahdy blah.

[katherinegregg · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Charles Strickland, whose character is based loosely on the French Post-Impressionist painter Paul Gauguin, is a stock broker living in London. In middle age he abandons his wife and children and moves to Paris to learn to paint. Having found his true passion in life, he feels no remorse for leaving his family and living the life of a starving artist. Strickland is not a like-able character. In Paris he steals the wife of a friend only to abandon her when he has finished using her as a model. He is self-centered and completely driven by his art. Eventually he makes his way to the South Seas. In Tahiti he finds an island woman to live with and paints until his death. The story is narrated by a young man who initially seeks out Strickland so he can report back to his wife. Time passes, Strickland dies and the narrator journeys to Tahiti to learn more about the life of this now famous painter.

[bkinetic_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Many of the characters here will be memorable, whether you like it or not. It raises a set of interesting questions about how the single-minded pursuit of goals, even worthy ones like artistic achievement, become depraved unless moderated by a larger sense of compassion and empathy. The protagonist devotes himself selfishly only to his art, even at the expense of his health and rudimentary comforts and callously uses everyone he can with ice cube logic. The narrator turns out to be an interesting character too because he barely passes judgment on the anti-hero protagonist and enjoys the back-and-forth of their conversations, though this may be a device to keep up the narration.

[mtroper-1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I came to this book having read a few others by Somerset Maugham, all of which I had greatly enjoyed.Maugham always, to my mind, describes facets of character extremely keenly, and here I find the device of having the story told by a character acqauinted with the protagonist (if you can call him that) very effective: do we trust what he says, are we being told Maugham's views on the issues raised by this portrayal and how do we take slightly confessional asides?There is no doubt that Maugham was often concerned with what it is to be an artist (or writer, more specifically), and I think he is here exploring one extreme personality trait that he is perhaps worried that he at times exhibits himself, rationalising it perhaps as pure selfishness: when put under the spotlight like this, that would be a too facile interpretation and he comes here more to seeing it as a complete disjunct with modern, Western societal norms, and esxamines those mores somewhat through this prism. If taken to extremes, behaviour such as Strickland's could be seen as some kind of analogue to Ayn Rand's objectivism.The other issue seems to be about the nature of art, and whether or not we should take into account such things as the character of the person who produced it.Ultimately I am not sure that Maugham comes to any conclusions about this, and the narrative method he chooses allows the issues raised to be left open, to my mind, and I have to say I thoroughly enjoyed reading this book, even if it isn't quite what I was expecting, or as enjoyable as I found, for example, Cakes and Ale.

[mahallett · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

easy to follow. interesting. not really gauguin. this edition has illustrations. good reader

[wealhtheowwylfing · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This wasn't the absolute perfection that was The Razor's Edge, and yet it was still better than 99.9% of the books out there. It is a testament to Maugham's talents that although I have never given a damn about Paul Gauguin, I loved this book.

[thornton37814 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Maugham's novel, based on the life of Paul Gaugin, features Charles Strickland, an Englishman who leaves his wife when he is 40 years of age for France. The narrator pursues him on behalf of the wife only to discover that he had not left her for another woman but to paint. Five years later, the narrator moves to France and barely recognizes Strickland. He is told that Strickland is a great artist although he has sold nothing. The novel continues to follow Strickland's life in France and later to Tahiti. I was surprised how much I enjoyed this story in spite of some of the plot elements. Just an additional note: I downloaded the Project Gutenberg edition of this book to read, but it was so full of OCR errors that it was very cumbersome to try to follow. I ended up downloading the free Kindle version instead which was much more readable.

[evilmoose · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Oh wow, I'm not sure what to think or say about this. Maugham's writing was beautiful. But the whole thing left such a bitter taste in my mouth. It was compulsively readable, but a little like watching a car crash. And I think better to go into it not knowing the similarities between the life of the main character here (Strickland), and Gaugin, because really Maugham just seems to take a couple of main points and just use those as a jumping point to inspire the novel. I.... hmm. I think I need to track down paper copies of this and some other Maugham books, they beg to be re-read ("straight to the pool room" she says, in a quote that possibly no-one else will recognise)

[mbmackay · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

A fictionalised life based on Gauguin. This is the "good Maugham".Read Samoa Oct 2003

[vivienner_3 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This novel is not a biography of Paul Gaugin but was inspired by the life of the French post-impressionist. There are a few similarities in the lives of Gaugin and Charles Strickland, but the story is Maugham's creation. Strickland is a repulsive character and from my limited knowledge of Gauguin, it appears there was a distinct similarity. It's not an attractive or appealing story, but still the reader feels the urge to continue, to see it through, possibly to discover deeper motives. Maugham's writing is a joy to read: beautifully clear and precise while able to depict emotions and traits, many of which we would rather deny. When rating this book I was torn between my enjoyment of the story and the quality of the writing. As one of my favourite writers, Maugham deserves more, but the characters - and they were, after all, created by Maugham - influenced my decision to give this book just 4 stars.

[bohemima · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Wow.Oh. That can't stand as a review, right? Dang. It expressed my feelings about this book exactly.Hmm. Maugham uses three or four facts from the life of Paul Gauguin and spins a tale of selfishness, art, and social commentary. It's an amazing tour de force, not a term I use lightly. Reading this is like watching some horrid event that you can't turn away from.Our narrator is reliable, within his frame of knowledge, but is surely one the most unlikable narrators in literature. His mean, nasty remarks, which unfortunately are cunningly acute, give the book a bitter taste.The main character, artist Charles Strickland, is a beast of self-interest, without a care or even a thought as to how his behavior might blight the lives of others. People are no more important to him than a suit of old clothes. A man (Dirk Stroeve, the only likable character in the book, who is mocked without mercy by everyone) saves his life. Strickland repays him by stealing away his beloved wife, and his studio into the bargain. (Not a spoiler; the reader can see this the instant they meet.)The artist/genius is portrayed here as being above the norms and mores of society. Society is portrayed as empty and venal. A person of genuine kindness and selflessness is portrayed as an amiable but contemptible buffoon. And the ending? Oh my. Nature and life at its cruelest.And yet...and yet. This is a compulsively readable book which I couldn't put down until I finished it. Something about it rings so horribly true, so life-like, that the reader comes to the appalled conclusion that life and society is pretty awful after all; might as well admit that right up front and get on with it.Whew! 5 depressed stars

[reginar_447079 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Moon and Sixpence is a beautifully written novel about a very ugly person. I do not mean physically, but rather spiritually. The novel is loosely based on the life of the artist Paul Gaugin. The setting is a combination of London, Paris and Tahiti during the late 1800s and is told through the third person voice of a male character that acts as a witness and observer. The novel centers on the life of the artist and is about the drive of the artist to create. The thought and the idea Moon and Sixpence left me with is that great artists and great creators are so driven by something that non-creatives cannot understand. This drive leads them to live outside of regular life and be willing to abandon ties to loved ones and society. The theme and concept is similar to that in The Paris Wife which is about Ernest Hemingway and his first wife. To be great, to create big does one have to be an asshole? Must one surrender completely to the craft and the drive? I just do not accept it. What I really was left with at the end of this book is the conviction that Paul Gaugin was an ass.

This novel drew me in and painted a very rich world for me as a reader to occupy for a short time. It is a short read and it is rewarding. Yet it was so unlike The Painted Veil by Maugham which I so loved. I loved the societal and gendered critique buried in The Painted Veil. But I found none of that in Moon and Sixpence. Instead it is full of dated gender, racial and ethnic concepts. And ultimately it is extremely ethnocentric and often times offensive. Yet, I think it may purposely portray misogynistic and ethnocentric values because these are suitable to the storyline. I am not sure. The descriptions and commentary on the Tahitians and women are in such strong contrast to the descriptions in The Painted Veil that I believe they were less of a message and more of ambience creators.

So the artist that is the focus of the story is called Strickland and his is an A Class Asshole. He walks away from his family and children and leaves them to potentially starve. He does not care what happens to them and never looks back. He has no affection or gratitude for anyone. He has little care if those around him die or suffer because of him. Why? The why is because he is driven to paint, to create. Creation is all he wants to do and what he feels he must do. And as such ? everyone around him suffers the consequences of his indifference.

Does it really take such an extreme self-focus to be great? Does the creative process demand an abandonment of kindness and love? I may be na?ve, but I just cannot accept that.

I recommend this book for anyone who is interested in the artist?s life, fans of Maugham?s writing and readers who enjoy reading about Paris at the turn of the century.

[edwinbcn · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

The moon and sixpence is a novel about artistic genius: it aims to show rather than tell what true genius is.The novel is said to be loosely based on the life of Paul Gauguin, but this is really rather immaterial and unimportant. There is no need to look into Gauguin's life. It is more likely that the novel contains a mixture of elements which Somerset Maugham was able to observe and absorb in the artistic milieu of the first quarter of the twentieth century, particularly in Paris. Gauguin lived there about a decade or two before Maugham, but surely Paris of the 1910s and 20s was a hotbed of artists, painters and writers, who were finding a way to express themselves, struggling to stay alive. Various other writers were influenced by Nietzsche's philosophy which suggested that among the herd of common men there were some individuals who were extraordinary, supermen, whose mindset and morals were entirely original and distinct from the ordinary plebs.In The moon and sixpence the main character, Charles Strickland, abruptly deserts his family to pursue a career as an artist. He gives up a sheltered and financially secure life for the poverty and uncertainties of a career in a field he has neither a background, experience or even recognition. The moment Strickland abandons his old lifestyle, he still needs to learn painting, and throughout the story, none but one other artist recognizes the quality of his work.Strickland's deserted wife asks the author to follow Strickland to Paris and report on his life there, an assignment the author takes up and extends into writing a full, albeit fragmented biography of Strickland's subsequent life, till his death in the Pacific islands region.The most important chapters of the novel are chapters 41 through 43, which interpret and explore the contrasts between Strickland and the other characters. In the preceding chapters, Strickland is shown living a completely irrational and immoral life.Dirk Stroeve is Dutch painter, financially secure and successful, painting conventional pieces, which are much in demand. He is portrayed as utterly sentimental, and a deeply decent and good man, the only person to recognize Strickland's talent. He saves Strickland's life and is rewarded by Strickland absconding with his wife Blanche. However, Strickland cares nothing for Blanche, who ends her life through suicide.Charles Strickland bears strong resemblance with the main character of The fountainhead by Ayn Rand, a novel which, while published in 1943, spiritually belongs to the same period.Strickland takes what he wants or needs and discards what he no longer fancies. His life is an example of the shredding of convention. His moral standards are on an entirely different plane, and cannot be understood by common, ordinary people. "I don't care a twopenny damn what you think about me" is what he says (p. 420).The extraordinary genius of Strickland is illustrated by contrast with the other characters, who are displayed as humble and imperfect. The (unnamed) author (and narrator) is portrayed as a moderately successful author. ("He spoke to me as if I were a child that needed to be distracted" p. 420) Ironically, the wife Strickland leaves, is shown to pick up her life and set up independently running a business, but naturally, running a business, administrating and accounting is ultimately seen as unimaginative, grey and bland. Stroeve is shown to be immature, sentimental and artistically mediocre, while Blanche is portrayed as the ultimate looser, a stunningly beautiful wife who has wasted her life on an ugly man, is seduced by a strong and powerful man, and is subsequently too weak to shape her life, resorting to suicide. Strickland's morals would surely suggest that these people deserve no better.Rejecting the herd mentality, Strickland has given up materialism and become like "a disembodied spirit" (p. 421), a great idealist (p. 430). He had a vision (ibid.)Much of the author's admiration, and exaltation emerges post-facto. The last part of the book is of little import, it reports the motions the narrator went through to trace down and talk with witnesses, to complete the biography of Charles Strickland. These witnesses have very little useful information to tell him. The author / narrator regrets that he never bought any of Strickland's paintings, realizing that at the time he, also, was not able to recognize the revolutionary genius. In his assessment, "Strickland was an odious man, but I still think he was a great one. (p. 431){Note: Page numbers are to the edition of Shanghai: Yiwen Press (2012) ??:????? (2012), which is preceded by the translation of the novel into Chinese. The English original version of the novel is printed on pp. 279 - 493}

[kant1066 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

When this was published almost a century ago, I?m sure the story of a man abandoning upper middle-class English life (along with his wife and two children) to pursue the life of a libertine artist in Paris would have packed more of a punch. It?s difficult to write about how and why people do such things beyond just saying, ?They must or else, according to the flights of their fanciful imagination, they will wither away and fail to fulfill their truest being.? But alas, that?s not even enough to fill out a short story. Sometimes a short, studied approach like this one works for huge, ponderous questions like the one this novel raises, and sometimes it falls incredibly short. Maugham?s writing is best suited to short stories or novels like this one, which has such a ?short story feel? to it that it could easily be read in a quick sitting. The only other piece by Maugham I?ve read was ?Razor?s Edge? which, though written a whole generation later, I remember having much the same literary style. The writing, especially in the first half, is so artful and balanced, and at the same time epigrammatically clever and playful, as to be unbelievable. Some of the quotations jump off the page and straight into your lap, begging to be included in the next edition of Bartlett?s. While this falls off a bit toward the end, this is one of the few pieces of fiction I have read lately where the simple elegance ? and sheer, unrepentant wit - of the style can?t help but strike you. Despite the incredibly controlled writing, judged strictly as whether it was able to shed any light onto the artistic process, or why someone would choose to repeatedly endure the gauntlets of the self-critical artist, I learned little here. Charles didn?t strike me as the heartless cad that I?m sure he probably appears to be to other readers; he?s just pursuing what he thinks he needs to be fully happy. Maybe that?s what Maugham is trying to insinuate through the title: that we should appreciate what we have (the moon ? most people seem to be perfectly happy with a spouse and two children without fulfilling their need to run away from everything and start all over again), instead of thinking that we can be well-adjusted people and wanting to absolutely have it all. Should we hold it against Charles that he makes such a drastic decision? It?s unclear whether Maugham takes delight in punishing Charles, but he certainly weathers a lot of punishment ? living in near squalor, dying a slow, painful death. Of course none of this is to say that he couldn?t have mitigated this punishment by being a decent person to Dirk?s wife, who then would have gladly taken him in when he needed her most. Did Charles suffer the fate of being almost wholly unrecognized during his lifetime and the scourge of disease directly because he so eagerly embraced the reckless decision to leave his family? Is Maugham trying to make a moral point? If so, it?s a very subtle one; none of the language in the book comes across as sermonizing in tone.As with any good story, there are more questions than answers. Charles is certainly supposed to strike us, I would think ? to make a forceful point. That point, however, eludes me still. That it might just as easily elude others may have convinced him that he?s nothing but a heartless beast. I?m convinced that he is not one of those. But what is he? That, I don?t know.

[hadriantheblind · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Quick read about the nature and driving passion behind an artist, and what impulsive things they do to people around them for the sake of creativity. An impressive read, and one that is only too relevant in every aspect.

[sumit_nangia-1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Finishing this masterpiece by Maugham was never a cinch. Montage of human emotions, dialectic of the plot and the jargon floundered its completion. Title of the book inspired from the quote ?Like so many young men he was so busy yearning for the moon that he never saw the sixpence at his feet ? clearly portrays the Strickland?s dilemma of choosing among the emotionally attachment to his better half(sixpence) or to leave her and pursue a life of pure aesthetic elegance ( The moon).

Told episodically, with a saga of events revolving around Strickland, Maugham presents an insight in the heart and soul of the main character (Strickland) and his transformation towards a callous existence. The inspiration of the story was Paul Gauguin, the originator of the primitive art. The novel presents an eccentric point of view that reflects those moments of non- prejudicial thinking where a genius transients his short term goals for an epoch. Loosing the ability to be sentient and eschewing of panache are described as the presage for such an elevation of mind. Maugham makes an exquisite illusory comparison of shedding of the leaves for a distant spring , in this regard.

The book follows Strickland and his work from France to Tahiti, where the story ends. Strickland?s unwillingness to compromise for his pursuit of art is implausible.Living in penury, denigrated by the society with a proof of his existence nearly effaced, he starts abashing anyone and everyone who tries to come close to him, which includes his purveyors and even those whom he beseech.

Like every other classic, it too presents the entry of a mellifluous young charming lady who leaving her equanimity becomes his minion and her own personality becomes a vile minuscule existence.

[bookwoman247 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

the Moon Sixpence is a novel which is based on the life of the artist Paul Gauguin, as Maugham imagined it.Of course, given the subject and the author, it was not a cheerful book with a happy ending for all. Maugham seems to have felt an urge to write about the darker side of human nature, while Gauguin's life seems to have lent itself easily to that purpose. I do feel sure that this says as much or more about the author than it does about the subject.I loved this book and sped through it.The tormented, artistic soul was laid bare and it was no easier to put the book down than it would be to look away from a train wreck.

[figgles_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I really enjoyed this book. Inspired by the life of Paul Gaugin, Somerset Maughn creats a biography for Charles Strickland, a man who under an incomprehnsible compulsion throws up his life as stockbroker, husband and father, and seeking only to paint, flees to France and then Tahiti leaving human casualties and great art in his wake. It's a seductive read but once finished you realise it's also a case of special pleading for genius to have it's head, no matter the cost. So I'm left feeling ambivalent, liking it against my better judgement, which may be just the effect that the author was intending!

[lebedev9114 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This novel is beautifully written and gives a good life lesson to who ever reads it. Strickland the protagonist of the plot starts out as a middle class stockbroker in London who feels that he is born to paint, leaves his wife his normal life and moves to Paris to start his painting career. The story keeps you hooked until the end following a man in his own world absolutely careless of people who surround him. He felt that he was born to make something beautiful and denies women and luxury in his life. To him a woman would just be a model he would hold on to just for the sake of painting but later getting her out of her mind. I found this novel amazing for the fact that you get a chance to follow a person who is sacrificing everything to achieve his goal in life. You can feel the passion , the value the dedication he puts into the beauty of his art (his goal) showing that everything around him is of no value to him. This story depicts well of how people really are around us and many connections can be easily to the everyday people we meet.

[debnance_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

The main character of this book, Charles Strickland, was a thoroughly unlikeable fellow. His departure from home left his first wife in despair. He took up with a woman in Paris and destroyed her life. It was only when he went to Tahiti that he found a haven for his art and lifestyle. That Strickland was based on the artist Gauguin adds to the story. I didn?t like the character, but I did like the book.

[lynnb_64 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Somerset Maugham writes skillfully and beautifully. His descriptions of characters are perceptive, and he delves into motivations and connections with the precision of laser surgery.The Moon and Sixpence tells the story of Charles Strickland, who at 40 years of age, leaves his job as a stockbroker and his wife and children because of an overwhelming desire to paint. The story is based on the life of Paul Gaugin.My one disappointment is that Stickland was portrayed as almost singularly unfeeling, and was contrasted by Dirk Stroeve, who was unfailingly good and compassionate. The contrast was, in my view, over done, with both men becoming almost caricatures rather than real people. But, that was (to me) a small fault in what was an engrossing read.

[hemlokgang · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This was a really interesting book. The writing was lovely. Apparently the narrator is Maugham himself, and the protagonist is a thinly veiled version of Paul Gaugain. The narrator trails Gaugain and the multitude of offended and broken hearted whom he left in his wake. Gaugain is painted as a stark, honest, totally self-centered man of genius. The story moves from London to Paris to Tahiti and back to London. The story is a little slow to become engaging, but once the story moved to Paris it was tough to put down. Educational and engaging.....not bad!

[williamcostiganjr · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I was disappointed by this novel. It has a very curious structure, and while the first 140 pages or so were quite good, the book fell apart for me after Strickland leaves France. The only character who is present throughout the novel is the narrator, who is not really at the center of the action. My favorite character, Dirk, just kind of vanishes never to be heard from again; and I did not feel at all connected to the book's chief subject, Strickland. There is a lot of writing *about* the characters, rather than presenting things as action.I ended up skimming the last thirty or forty pages.If you are interested in Maugham, try Of Human Bondage instead--it is outstanding. This one you can skip.

[soylentgreen23 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

When Maugham writes like this, I want to just consume every word he produces. I was talking about him to a friend recently - a friend who has now read this and "The Razor's Edge" because I asked her to - and I decided that of all the creations in all of literature, the one I most want to be like - or even just to be - is the narrator in a Maugham novel."The Moon and Sixpence" holds me in thrall in the same way, even though one could say it is slightly inferior to some of Maugham's other work. It concerns the life of a genius artist, I kind of Gauguin, I suppose, called Strickland; an obscure, obtuse man who suddenly gives up his life in London and moves abroad to study and become a painter.In true Maugham fashion, the story isn't just about Strickland, but about everything his story means - about doing things contrary to the expectations of society, of following one's own will; everything that could touch on the subject seems to interest the narrator, lifting the story from the place most would be content to let it rest.

[nealbozeman · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Vivid illustration of the destructive pursuit and rebirth of the main character, Charles Strickland, which is loosely based on the life of Primitivist painter, Paul Gaugin.

[hellbent_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Could not figure out the title.