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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.

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
Wind
Hours
Away
Like
Cobwebs
Blew
Listened
Sunlight
Talked

More quotes by John Fowles

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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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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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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 do not plan my fiction any more than I normally plan woodland walks I follow the path that seems most promising at any given point, not some itinerary decided before entry.
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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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Our knowledge of what the richer than ourselves possess, and the poor do not, has never been more widespread. Therefore, envy, which is wanting what others have, and jealousy, which is not wanting others to have what one has, have never been more widespread.
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The profoundest distances are never geographical.
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He was one of the most supremely stupid men I have ever met. He taught me a great deal.
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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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To despise all effort is the greatest effort of all.
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The craving to risk death is our last great perversion. We come from night, we go into night. Why live in night?
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There are only two races on this planet - the intelligent and the stupid.
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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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I knew words were like chains, they held me back . . . the act of description taints the description.
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When you draw something it lives and when you photograph it it dies
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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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And I just can't live in this present. I would go mad if I did.
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Time is not a road - it is a room.
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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.
John Fowles
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I knew I would always want to go on living with myself, however hollow I became, however diseased.
John Fowles