First published in 1915. It is considered one of Maugham’s most famous works and is a semi-autobiographical novel that explores themes of art, love, and the human condition.

Or so says the internet – in fact it’s about obsessive love and I could not finish it. It’s a 600 page novel, and obviously it’s a classic but I got over 300 pages into it and just got to annoyed to continue reading.

When I read fiction I want to enjoy – and I was getting really irritated reading this book.

Until about 15 years ago, I finished any book I started – regardless. It was a rule – and I was still in a place in my life when I couldn’t break those kinds of rules. I couldn’t for example cook from a recipe if I didn’t have every single ingredient. I’m over it, (thank you Anne Rice, a story for another day) but maybe that’s why this book irritated me so much – what ever connection I have to my own obsessive-compulsive behaviors.

You can read the real reviews here