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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Like all mystics (and many novelists, not least the present one) he is baffled, a child, before the real now far happier out of it, in a narrative past or a prophetic future, locked inside that weird tence grammar does not allow, the imaginary present.
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I love making, I love doing. I love being to the full, I love everything which is not sitting and watching and copying and dead at heart.
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Ask me to marry you. Will you marry me? No.
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I knew I would always want to go on living with myself, however hollow I became, however diseased.
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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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You wish to be liked. I wish simply to be. One day you will know what that means, perhaps. And you will smile. Not against me. But with me.
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Wolves don't hunt singly, but always in pairs. The lone wolf was a myth.
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Just those three words, said and meant. I love you. They were quite hopeless. He said it as he might have said, I have cancer. His fairy story.
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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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I hate the uneducated and the ignorant. I hate the pompous and the phoney. I hate the jealous and the resentful. I hate the crabbed and mean and the petty. I hate all ordinary dull little people who aren't ashamed of being dull and little.
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The American myth is of free will in its simple, primary sense. One can choose oneself and will oneself and this absurdly optimistic assumption so dominates the republic that it has bred all its gross social injustices.
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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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We talked for hours. He talked and I listened. It was like wind and sunlight. It blew all the cobwebs away.
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She's always looking for poetry and passion and sensitivity, the whole Romantic kitchen. I live on a rather simpler diet.' 'Prose and pudding?''I don't expect attractive men necessarily to have attractive souls.
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The profoundest distances are never geographical.
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Art's cruel. You can get away with murder with words. But a picture is like a window straight through to your inmost heart.
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There is only one good definition of God: the freedom that allows other freedoms to exist.
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Greece is like a mirror. It makes you suffer. Then you learn.' To live alone?' To live. With what you are.
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The best wines take the longest to mature.
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Hazard has conditioned us to live in hazard. All our pleasures are dependent on it. Even though I arrange for a pleasure, and look forward to it, my eventual enjoyment of it is still a matter of hazard. Wherever time passes, there is hazard.
John Fowles