Rodevra Republic

A friend’s compliment leads to a reflection on writing, readers, and an amusing wartime episode involving Somerset Maugham

A friend once told me something that I took as a compliment.

He said, “Raj, I have always thought that had you been a judge, you would have written beautiful judgments.”

I thanked him, though the remark made me think about writing itself. When one has been writing for years, and across different subjects and genres, the act of writing becomes relatively easy. The rules are largely the same everywhere. One must keep the reader in mind, share something that the reader can understand, relate to, and perhaps benefit from.

In an ideal situation, the writer almost becomes invisible. Only the message passes through and is remembered.

For that to happen, however, the writer must possess a quality that is surprisingly rare—humility.

Writers often fall into two traps. One is the temptation to sermonise and dispense unsolicited advice. The other is the subtle intoxication that comes with a little popularity. When praise begins to flow and the feedback loop weakens, a writer may not realise when to stop. At other times the opposite problem arises: the silence of readers. Few things are more discouraging to a writer than the feeling that no one is paying attention.

This problem is not new. Even great writers have faced it.

Take the case of W. Somerset Maugham, one of the most popular British writers of his time.

During the First World War, Maugham worked in France for the Red Cross as an interpreter and medical assistant. In 1915 he was approached by an intelligence officer and recruited into Britain’s Secret Intelligence Service (SIS). His recently published novel Of Human Bondage had already established his reputation, and his language skills made him particularly useful.

The suggestion was simple: his writing could serve as a convenient cover for intelligence work.

Maugham was sent to Geneva, where he posed as a French playwright. From there he acted as an intermediary between agents in the field and intelligence authorities in Britain. Messages were often hidden within manuscripts and sent across borders without attracting suspicion. He even carried out this work without pay, purely as a patriotic duty.

He set about sending these manuscripts regularly.

But months passed with hardly any acknowledgment or response.

Maugham began to wonder whether anyone was reading his messages at all. The work of an intelligence agent, he later remarked, was often monotonous and much of it seemed “uncommonly useless.” Gradually his enthusiasm faded.

Finally, he decided to test the system.

One day he inserted a few deliberately humorous and nonsensical passages into his manuscript, something that would be impossible to miss if anyone were actually paying attention.

As usual, he sent the manuscript and expected silence.

But this time a message quickly arrived from London, sternly admonishing him for being flippant.

Maugham was not offended.

On the contrary, he felt relieved.

At least someone, somewhere, was reading.