He had violent passions, and on occasion desire seized his body so that he was driven to an orgy of lust, but he hated the instincts that robbed him of his self-possession. I think, even, he hated the inevitable partner in his debauchery. When he had regained command over himself, he shuddered at the sight of the woman he had enjoyed. His thoughts floated then serenely in the empyrean, and he felt towards her the horror that perhaps the painted butterfly, hovering about the flowers, feels to the filthy chrysalis from which it has triumphantly emerged. I suppose that art is a manifestation of the sexual instinct. It is the same emotion which is excited in the human heart by the sight of a lovely woman, the Bay of Naples under the yellow moon, and the Entombment of Titian. It is possible that Strickland hated the normal release of sex because it seemed to him brutal by comparison with the satisfaction of artistic creation.

— W. Somerset Maugham

He knew that she had been dreaming that night, and he knew what her dreams were about. She had forgotten them. He forebodes to look at her. It gave him a grim, horrible, and rather uncanny sensation to think that a vivid, lacerating life could go on when one sunk in unconsciousness, a life so real that it could cause tears to stream down the face and twist the mouth in woe, and yet when the sleeper woke left no recollection behind.

— W. Somerset Maugham

...her very kindness was cruel because it was founded not on love but on reason...

— W. Somerset Maugham

He thought to himself that there could be no greater torture in the world than at the same time to love and to contemn.

— W. Somerset Maugham

He was always seeking for a meaning in life, and here it seemed to him that a meaning was offered; but it was obscure and vague. . . He saw what looked like the truth as by flashes of lightening on a dark, stormy night you might see a mountain range. He seemed to see that a man need not leave his life to chance, but that his will was powerful; he seemed to see that self-control might be as passionate and as active as the surrender to passion; he seemed to see that the inward life might be as manifold, as varied, as rich with experience, as the life of one who conquered realms and explored unknown lands.

— W. Somerset Maugham

He was not crying for the pain they had caused him, nor for the humiliation he had suffered when they looked at his foot, but with rage at himself because, unable to stand the torture, he had put out his foot of his own accord.

— W. Somerset Maugham

He was terribly conscious that he only had one life, and it seemed too sad to think that he had wasted it. He could never surmount his immeasurable regret. And that's why I tell you that Bring is right. Even though it only lasts five years, even though he ruins his career, even though this marriage ends in disaster, it will have been worthwhile. He will have been satisfied. He will have fulfilled himself.

— W. Somerset Maugham

He was terribly conscious that he only had one life and with seemed too sad to think that he had wasted it. He could never surmount his immeasurable regret. And that's why I tell you that Bring is right. Even though it only lasts five years, even though he ruins his career, even though this marriage ends in disaster, it will have been worthwhile. He will have been satisfied. He will have fulfilled himself.

— W. Somerset Maugham

Himself an ugly man, insignificant of appearance, he prized very highly comeliness in others.

— W. Somerset Maugham

His habit of reading isolated him: it became such a need that after being in company for some time he grew tired and restless ...

— W. Somerset Maugham