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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
Like
Cobwebs
Blew
Listened
Sunlight
Talked
Wind
Hours
Away
More quotes by John Fowles
Duty largely consists of pretending that the trivial is critical.
John Fowles
Follow the accident, fear the fixed plan--that is the rule.
John Fowles
Love is the mystery between two people, not the identity.
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There are some men who are consoled by the idea that there are women less attractive than their wives and others who are haunted by the knowledge that there are more attractive.
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There are only two races on this planet - the intelligent and the stupid.
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The dead live. How do they live? By love.
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The great majority of modern third-person narration is I narration very thinly disguised.
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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
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.
John Fowles
That's the trouble with provincial life. Everyone knows everyone and there is no mystery. No romance.
John Fowles
I just think of things as beautiful or not. Can't you understand? I don't think of good or bad. Just of beautiful or ugly. I think a lot of nice things are ugly and a lot of nasty things are beautiful.
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Wolves don't hunt singly, but always in pairs. The lone wolf was a myth.
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If a person is intelligent, then of course he is either an agnostic or an atheist. Just as he is a physical coward. They are automatic definitions of high intelligence.
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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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To write poetry and to commit suicide, apparently so contradictory, had really been the same, attempts at escape.
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When you draw something it lives and when you photograph it it dies
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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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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.
John Fowles
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.
John Fowles
Thomas Beecham was a pompous little band-master who stood against everything creative in the art of his time.
John Fowles