Apparently, W. Somerset Maugham was a depraved individual.
The most louche of all the expatriates who congregated on the beautiful stretch of coast between Nice and Monaco before World War II, the prolific writer held court at his fabulous mansion, the Villa Mauresque, in glamorous Cap Ferrat.
Nude bathing parties, drugs, lashings of champagne and nightly seductions of the local lads . . . Almost everyone who visited was shocked by his decadence.
Frankly, who's surprised? Aren't all brilliant writers somewhat insane?
Show me a normal writer and I'll show you a very bored reader.