Salvatore by W. Somerset Maugham

I wanted to see whether I could hold your attention for a few pages while I drew for you the portrait of a man, just an ordinary Italian fisherman who possessed nothing in the world except a quality which is the rarest, the most precious and the loveliest that anyone can have... in case you have not guessed what the quality was, I will tell you. Goodness, just goodness.

That's the odd and abrupt conclusion to a rather odd little story. It reads more like an exercise in composition than a fully formed narrative, and as it's a story where plot is treated as unnecessary, the economy of description is especially puzzling. In the end we're fairly well convinced of Salvatore's smallness - his inconsequence in any greater pattern - but also, indeed, of his goodness. My attention was held long enough for me to perceive this goodness, so I suppose Maugham did achieve his aim. Strange, though.