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I am infinitely strange to myself.

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
Infinitely
Strange

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Wolves don't hunt singly, but always in pairs. The lone wolf was a myth.
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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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The pronoun is one of the most terrifying masks man has invented.
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There are only two races on this planet - the intelligent and the stupid.
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If you want to be true to life, start lying about it
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The profoundest distances are never geographical.
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One degrades oneself sometimes in the effort not to be lonely.
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Stained glass, engraved glass, frosted glass give me plain glass.
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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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My hatred of crowds, the obviousness of crowds, of anything en masse. Is this why I like little-known books? A general desire to escape the main world.
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There is only one good definition of God: the freedom that allows other freedoms to exist.
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I think we are just insects, we live a bit and then die and that’s the lot. There’s no mercy in things. There’s not even a Great Beyond. There’s nothing.
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The newspapers are full of what we would like to happen to us and what we hope will never happen to us.
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We all want things we can't have. Being a decent human being is accepting that.
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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.
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Art is a statement of one in the face of all not a statement by one for the use of all.
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Time is not a road - it is a room.
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Between skin and skin, there is only light.
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These last few days I've felt Godless. I've felt cleaner, less muddled, less blind. I still believe in a God. But he's so remote, so cold, so mathematical. I see that we have to live as if there is no God. Prayer and worship and singing hymns-all silly and useless.
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Duty is but a pot. It holds whatever is put in it, from the greatest evil to the greatest good.
John Fowles