It’s a one paragraph chapter. Maybe a one page chapter. Maugham opens, rather exasperatingly, with how sick he was of being a success as a dramatist. I can’t remember how many times I’ve read, over halfway through The Summing Up, about his tiredness at being such a success. He was planning on getting married—turns out the happiness Philip Carey found with Sally is the happiness Maugham wanted in wedded bliss (or so he says)—except then the First World War broke out and he didn’t have to do it. It’s simultaneously a pointless chapter, a very autobiographical one, and an annoying one. Not a good combination, as the first and third features overwrite any potential of the second.