W. Somerset Maugham had a weird knack for making you feel uncomfortable about your own life choices. He wrote The Moon and Sixpence in 1919, and honestly, the book is less of a cozy classic and more of a slap in the face to anyone who thinks they’ve got their priorities straight. It’s based—very loosely, mind you—on the life of Paul Gauguin.
But here’s the thing.
Most people think it’s just a story about a guy who quits his job to paint. It isn’t. Not really. It’s a brutal look at what happens when a human being decides that the "sixpence" (the boring, safe, middle-class life) just isn't worth the soul-crushing weight of ignoring the "moon" (that wild, impractical urge to create something real).
Charles Strickland, the protagonist, is a jerk. Let’s just be real about that from the jump. He’s a stockbroker in London, has a nice wife, two kids, and a perfectly functional existence. Then, one day, he just... leaves. No note. No explanation. He goes to Paris, lives in absolute squalor, and treats everyone around him like garbage. You’re supposed to hate him. You probably will. But Maugham forces you to wonder if Strickland’s absolute obsession is actually more "honest" than the polite lies we tell ourselves every day to keep our bosses happy.
Why The Moon and Sixpence Hits Different a Century Later
We live in an era of "quiet quitting" and "hustle culture," which makes the themes in The Moon and Sixpence feel eerily modern. Strickland didn't want a side hustle. He didn't want to monetize his passion on Instagram. He wanted to paint because he literally had no other choice. It was a biological necessity for him, like breathing or eating.
Maugham’s title is a stroke of genius, though he didn’t actually come up with the phrase himself. It supposedly came from a review of his earlier book, Of Human Bondage, where a critic said the protagonist was so busy looking at the moon that he didn't see the sixpence at his feet. Maugham loved the imagery. To him, the moon represents the unattainable, the divine, and the purely aesthetic. The sixpence? That’s the small, silver coin of everyday life. It’s the mortgage. It’s the grocery list. It’s the awkward small talk at a dinner party you didn't want to attend in the first place.
The Gauguin Connection: Fact vs. Fiction
It’s impossible to talk about this book without talking about Paul Gauguin. Maugham traveled to Tahiti in 1917 to research Gauguin’s life, even buying a glass door the artist had painted on for a few hundred francs. It’s now in the Somerset Maugham Gallery in Nice.
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But Strickland isn't a carbon copy of Gauguin.
- Gauguin actually cared about his reputation to some degree; Strickland couldn't care less if the world burned as long as he had a canvas.
- Gauguin had a history in the French Navy and a bank; Strickland is a dull Londoner.
- The ending in the book is way more dramatic—and arguably more poetic—than Gauguin’s actual messy, syphilis-ridden decline in the Marquesas Islands.
Maugham uses the idea of Gauguin to explore a terrifying question: Does genius excuse cruelty? Strickland ruins lives. He steals the wife of the only man who helps him, then discards her when she becomes an "interruption" to his work. He’s a monster. Yet, the art he produces is transcendent. Maugham doesn't give you an easy answer. He sort of just shrugs and shows you the beautiful, terrible wreckage of a life lived for art alone.
The Problem With "Following Your Passion"
Today’s self-help gurus love to tell you to "follow your passion." They make it sound like a tropical vacation. In The Moon and Sixpence, Maugham shows that following your passion is actually a form of possession. It’s a demon.
Strickland doesn't find "happiness." He finds a release from an internal pressure that was killing him. He lives in filth. He starves. He eventually gets leprosy. If you told a modern career coach that you wanted to be like Strickland, they’d call for a wellness check.
But there’s a raw power in that obsession. Maugham’s prose is intentionally dry and detached, which makes the moments of artistic fervor feel even more intense. He uses a narrator who is a bit of a prude—a writer who is part of the very society Strickland despises. This creates a brilliant tension. You’re seeing the "moon" through the eyes of a man who is very much focused on his "sixpences."
The Tahitian Dream and the Reality of Escape
When Strickland finally gets to Tahiti, the book shifts. The gray, damp streets of London and Paris are replaced by something lush and primal. This is where the "moon" finally feels reachable.
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- The setting: Tahiti isn't portrayed as a paradise in the tourist sense. It’s portrayed as a place where the soul can be naked.
- The relationships: Strickland finds a woman, Ata, who basically leaves him alone to paint. This is his version of heaven—not love, but the absence of demands.
- The Masterpiece: The description of Strickland’s final work—painted on the walls of his hut while he is blind and dying—is one of the most haunting passages in literature. It’s an act of pure creation that no one was ever supposed to see.
Honestly, it makes you look at your own life and wonder what you’re holding back. Are you so worried about the sixpence—the social standing, the LinkedIn profile, the "right" neighborhood—that you’ve forgotten the moon even exists?
Why Critics Still Argue About This Book
Some people hate this book. They find Strickland’s misogyny and Maugham’s colonialist perspective hard to stomach. And they aren't wrong. The way women are treated as mere obstacles or tools in Strickland’s journey is genuinely disturbing.
However, ignoring the book because the protagonist is a "bad person" misses the point. Maugham wasn't writing a role model. He was writing a case study on the destructive power of the sublime. He was fascinated by the "narrowness" of the moral man versus the "breadth" of the great man.
A lot of literary scholars, like Selina Hastings in her biography of Maugham, point out that the author himself felt trapped by social conventions. As a closeted gay man in early 20th-century England, Maugham knew all about wearing a mask. Strickland is the man who rips the mask off, even if he rips his skin off with it.
Actionable Insights for the Modern Reader
If you’re going to pick up The Moon and Sixpence today, don't read it as a biography. Read it as a challenge to your own complacency.
- Audit your "sixpences." What are the things you’re doing just because you think you "should"? Are they actually providing value, or are they just shiny distractions?
- Acknowledge the cost of creation. Real work—whether it’s art, a business, or a deep personal change—requires sacrifice. Strickland’s sacrifice was extreme, but the lesson remains: you can't have the moon while clutching your sixpences with both hands.
- Watch for the "Strickland Moment." That’s the point where you realize a situation is no longer viable. For Strickland, it was a sudden departure. For you, it might be a gradual pivot. But recognize the urge to be authentic before it turns into resentment.
- Read Maugham’s other works for context. If you find the narrator’s voice interesting, jump into Of Human Bondage or The Razor's Edge. They all deal with this same struggle between the material world and the "something more" we all crave.
The book ends with the destruction of the great work. Strickland’s hut is burned down after his death, per his instructions. The art is gone. Only the legend remains. It’s a gut-punch of an ending because it suggests that the process of reaching for the moon was more important than the moon itself.
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Stop waiting for the "right time" to do the thing you’re terrified of doing. The world will always offer you a sixpence to stay quiet and stay put. The moon is much harder to catch, but as Strickland proves, it’s the only thing that actually matters when the lights go out.
Go find a copy of the book. Look for the older editions if you can—there’s something about the smell of old paper that fits Maugham’s vibe. Read it in one sitting. Let it make you angry. Let it make you uncomfortable. Then, go do something that has absolutely nothing to do with money or status. Reach for the moon, even if you’re the only one who ever knows you did.
To really understand the impact, look at how the art world changed after Gauguin—and by extension, the world Maugham described. We moved from realism to expressionism, from painting what we see to painting what we feel. That shift required people who were willing to be "monsters" in the eyes of polite society. You don't have to be a jerk to be an artist, but you do have to be brave enough to let go of the coins in your pocket.
Next time you're stuck in a meeting that feels like it’s draining your soul, remember Charles Strickland. You don't have to run away to Tahiti and catch leprosy. But you might want to ask yourself if you’re spending your whole life staring at the ground for a coin that won't even buy you a decent cup of coffee in ten years.
The moon is still up there. It doesn't care about your 401k. It doesn't care about your reputation. It’s just there, cold and bright, waiting for someone to be crazy enough to look up.
If you want to dive deeper into the actual history, check out Gauguin: Prints by Elizabeth Mongan or explore the digital archives of the National Gallery. Seeing the actual colors Gauguin used—those impossible yellows and haunting purples—makes Maugham’s descriptions of Strickland’s genius feel a lot more grounded in reality. The transition from the "sixpence" of London to the "moon" of the Pacific wasn't just a literary device; it was a revolution in how we perceive the world.
Final thought: Don't be like Strickland in how he treated people. Be like Strickland in how he treated his soul. One is a warning; the other is an invitation. Most people get them mixed up. Don't be most people.