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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
Listened
Sunlight
Talked
Wind
Hours
Away
Like
Cobwebs
Blew

More quotes by John Fowles

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Content is a word unknown to life it is also a word unknown to man.
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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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We chase the reward, we get the reward and then we discover that the true reward is always the next reward. Buying pleasure is a false end.
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Another reason I think the novel will survive is that the reader has to work in a novel. In a film, you are presented with someone else's imagination exactly bodied out. The marvelous thing about a novel is that every reader will imagine even the very simplest sentence slightly differently.
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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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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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The most important questions in life can never be answered by anyone except oneself.
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We all want things we can't have. Being a decent human being is accepting that.
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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 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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The great majority of modern third-person narration is I narration very thinly disguised.
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The dead live. How do they live? By love.
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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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I am infinitely strange to myself.
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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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Love is the mystery between two people, not the identity.
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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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I was too green to know that all cynicism masks a failure to cope - an impotence, in short and that to despise all effort is the greatest effort of all.
John Fowles
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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.
John Fowles
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There are only two races on this planet - the intelligent and the stupid.
John Fowles