Quote

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.

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
Love
Else
Walked
Remember
Street
Today
Looked
Back
Streets
Ever
Please
Everything
Shall
Much
Forget
Never
Hate

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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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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.
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To write poetry and to commit suicide, apparently so contradictory, had really been the same, attempts at escape.
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Wealth is a monster. It takes a month to learn to control it financially. And many years to learn to control it psychologically.
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Between skin and skin, there is only light.
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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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Follow the accident, fear the fixed plan--that is the rule.
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The practise of an art is essential to the whole man, not because of what art is but because of what art does to the artist.
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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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His statement to himself should have been, 'I possess this now, therefore I am happy', instead of what it so Victorianly was: I cannot possess this for ever, and therefore am sad.
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Ask me to marry you. Will you marry me? No.
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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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If you want to be true to life, start lying about it
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I am one in a row of specimens. It's when I try to flutter out of line that he hates me. I'm meant to be dead, pinned, always the same, always beautiful. He knows that part of my beauty is being alive. but it's the dead me he wants. He wants me living-but-dead.
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We all write poems it is simply that poets are the ones who write in words.
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I knew words were like chains, they held me back . . . the act of description taints the description.
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Each age, each guilty age, builds high walls around its Versailles and personally I hate those walls most when they are made by literature and art.
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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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He felt himself in suspension between the two worlds, the warm, neat civilization behind his back, the cool, dark mystery outside. We all write poems it is simply that poets are the ones who write in words.
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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.
John Fowles