The love of his life was an American, Gerald Haxton, denied entry to Britain for undisclosed reasons. Haxton was what used to be called a bounder, but a charming one who was also a promiscuous alcoholic. He brought Maugham joy and suffering. He was also very useful. Travelling the world as Maugham's secretary, he gathered material for the stories Maugham wrote. When Haxton died he was replaced by Alan Searle who, jealously devoted to Maugham, fed the old man's deluded fantasies as he entered a miserable old age, and eventually senile dementia. 

Of course everyone who was anyone knew all about Maugham's sexual tastes. His brother Fred, briefly Lord Chancellor, was once required to warn him to be more discreet on his visits to London. But the secret was kept from the people who mattered — those who bought his books and went to see his plays.

None of this is of much importance now, though it would be hypocritical to pretend that it isn't of interest, and Hastings sensibly makes no such pretence. Nevertheless, what really matters is the work, and, given Wilson's dismissal of him, it is remarkable how much of it still reads well and gives pleasure. Modestly — or displaying a tactful false modesty — he himself suggested that two or three of his plays might "retain for some time a pale kind of life, for they are written in the tradition of English comedy" and that some of his best stories would find their way into anthologies: "slender baggage...but it is better than nothing."

This is too modest a claim. Maugham's faults are obvious. His imagination rarely takes off. He wrote in a plain man-of-the-world style, replete in clichés. (But this is better than a style that is always drawing attention to itself.) In dialogue he rarely caught, or attempted to catch, the rhythms of speech, and his characters mostly sound much the same. He has certain stylistic tricks which he repeats time and again, as, for example: "He was so much the perfect English diplomat that you would never have guessed that his father had been a Silver Ring bookie and his mother had gone out charring" (I made that one up, but it is characteristic).

His merits, however, outweigh his defects. He had a remarkable gift for narrative. The range and variety of characters and settings are great and almost always interesting. He was an acute observer of human frailty. He knew people and assessed them intelligently, and he wrote very well about women; unusually for a writer of his time he showed that they had sexual appetites every bit as keen as men's. His best novels are beautifully and satisfyingly constructed. Many of them have dated, as almost all novels do, but half a dozen at least remain fresh. I shall never again read his long autobiographical Of Human Bondage, compelling though its treatment of sexual obsession is; but it is still in print, almost 100 years after its first publication. But I return often to Cakes and Ale, a perfect comic novel, and to The Narrow Corner, The Painted Veil and Christmas Holiday. Despite Edmund Wilson's envy, parts of The Razor's Edge remain delightful. Most of the short stories still read well, notably those in Ashenden, arguably one of the best spy stories. 

Would he have done better if he had come clean about his homosexuality? It seems unlikely. Meanwhile, Selina Hastings has done him proud. Her book is well written, continuously interesting, generous and fair. This is unusual among biographies today.