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Baseball and cricket are beautiful and highly stylized medieval war substitutes, chess made flesh, a mixture of proud chivalry and base-in both senses-greed.

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
Senses
Mixtures
Flesh
Medieval
Baseball
Cricket
Proud
Substitutes
War
Base
Beautiful
Highly
Stylized
Made
Greed
Chivalry
Chess
Mixture

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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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We all write poems it is simply that poets are the ones who write in words.
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Between skin and skin, there is only light.
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The great majority of modern third-person narration is I narration very thinly disguised.
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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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We talked for hours. He talked and I listened. It was like wind and sunlight. It blew all the cobwebs away.
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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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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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Liking other people is an illusion we have to cherish in ourselves if we are to live in society.
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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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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 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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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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When you draw something it lives and when you photograph it it dies
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That's the trouble with provincial life. Everyone knows everyone and there is no mystery. No romance.
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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 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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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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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 is only one good definition of God: the freedom that allows other freedoms to exist.
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