Quote

He is solid immovable, iron-willed. He showed me one day his killing bottle. I'm imprisoned in it. Fluttering against the glass. Because I can see through it I still think I can escape. I have hope. But it's all an illusion. A thick round wall of glass.

John Fowles

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John Fowles
Age: 79 †
Born: 1926
Born: March 31
Died: 2005
Died: November 5
Essayist
Novelist
Screenwriter
Teacher
Writer
Leigh-on-Sea
Essex
Stills
Round
Imprisoned
Still
Rounds
Bottle
Think
Glasses
Showed
Thinking
Escape
Bottles
Killing
Solid
Illusion
Thick
Immovable
Wall
Glass
Willed
Hope
Iron
Fluttering

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I just think of things as beautiful or not. Can't you understand? I don't think of good or bad. Just of beautiful or ugly. I think a lot of nice things are ugly and a lot of nasty things are beautiful.
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Stained glass, engraved glass, frosted glass give me plain glass.
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The absurdly neurotic role you and the rest of your kind have always attributed to me Erato, the Goddess Muse of Erotic Poetry bears no relation at all to reality. As a matter of fact, I was trained as a clinical psychologist. Who simply happens to have specialized in the mental illness that you, in your ignorance, call literature.
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Adulthood is not an age, but a stage of knowledge of self.
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There is only one good definition of God: the freedom that allows other freedoms to exist.
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It is only when our characters and events begin to disobey us that they begin to live.
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Piers is always going on about how he hated Stowe. As if that solves everything, as if to hate something means it can't have affected you.
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There are many reasons why novelists write, but they all have one thing in common - a need to create an alternative world.
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Duty is but a pot. It holds whatever is put in it, from the greatest evil to the greatest good.
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When you draw something it lives and when you photograph it it dies
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Thomas Beecham was a pompous little band-master who stood against everything creative in the art of his time.
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If you forget everything else about me, please remember this. I walked down that street and I never looked back and I love you. I love you. I love you so much that I shall hate you for ever for today.
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The diary will really try and tell people who you are and what you were. The alternative is writing nothing, or creating a totally lifeless, as it is leafless, garden.
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You come to the United States not knowing what to expect. Then all your worst prejudices are confirmed.
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Love is the mystery between two people, not the identity.
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It is not only species of animal that die out, but whole species of feeling. And if you are wise you will never pity the past for what it did not know, but pity yourself for what it did.
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I read and I read and I was like a medieval king, I had fallen in love with the picture long before I saw the reality.
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I have a strange illusion quite often. I think I've become deaf. I have to make a little noise to prove I'm not. I clear my throat to show myself that everything is normal. It's like the little Japanese girl they found in the ruins of Hiroshima. Everything dead and she was singing to her doll.
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Ask me to marry you. Will you marry me? No.
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Alive. Alive in the way that death is alive.
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