The bowed head, the buried face. She is silent, she will never speak, never forgive, never reach a hand, never leave this frozen present tense. All waits, suspended. Suspended the autumn trees, the autumn sky, anonymous people. A blackbird, poor fool, sings out of season from the willows by the lake. A flight of pigeons over the houses; fragments of freedom, hazard, an anagram made flesh. And somewhere the stinging smell of burning leaves.
The craving to risk death is our last great perversion. We come from night, we go into night. Why live in night?
The world began in hazard and will end in it.
There is no plan. All is hazard. And the only thing that will preserve us is ourselves.
Think. In a minute from now you could be saying, I risked death. I threw for life, and I won life. It is a very wonderful feeling. To have survived.
To write poetry and to commit suicide, apparently so contradictory, had really been the same, attempts at escape.
Wealth is a monster. It takes a month to learn to control it financially. And many years to learn to control it psychologically.
Wolves don't hunt singly, but always in pairs. The lone wolf was a myth.
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.
Between skin and skin, there is only light.
Art's cruel. You can get away with murder with words. But a picture is like a window straight through to your inmost heart.
It's rather like your voice. You put up with your voice and speak with it because you haven't any choice. But it's what you say that counts. It's what distinguishes all great art from the other kind.
He was one of the most supremely stupid men I have ever met. He taught me a great deal.
But forgetting's not something you do, it happens to you.
It's despair at the lack of feeling, of love, of reason in the world. It's despair that anyone can even contemplate the idea of dropping a bomb or ordering that it should be dropped. It's despair that so few of us care. It's despair that there's so much brutality and callousness in the world. It's despair that perfectly normal young men can be made vicious and evil because they've won a lot of money. And then do what you've done to me.
I could offer no consolation and I do not think he wanted any. There are situations in which consolation only threatens the equilibrium that time has instituted.
Forgetting's not something you do, it happens to you. Only it didn't happen to me.
It's no good. I've been trying to sleep for the last half-hour, and I can't. Writing here is a sort of drug. It's the only thing I look forward to. This afternoon I read what I wrote... And it seemed vivid. I know it seems vivid because my imagination fills in all the bits another person wouldn't understand. I mean, it's vanity. But it seems a sort of magic... And I just can't live in this present. I would go mad if I did
I knew I would always want to go on living with myself, however hollow I became, however diseased.
He said, I suppose there are people who are purely moved by great art. I never met a painter who was. I'm not. All I think of when I see that picture is that it has the supreme mastery I have spent all my life trying to attain. And shall not. Ever.
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.
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.
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.
The ordinary man is the curse of civilization.
I was born in 1927, the only child of middle-class parents, both English, and themselves born in the grotesquely elongated shadow, which they never rose sufficiently above history to leave, of that monstrous dwarf Queen Victoria.
I hate the uneducated and the ignorant. I hate the pompous and the phoney. I hate the jealous and the resentful. I hate the crabbed and mean and the petty. I hate all ordinary dull little people who aren't ashamed of being dull and little.
We all want things we can't have. Being a decent human being is accepting that.
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.
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.
When you draw something it lives and when you photograph it it dies
More John Fowles Quotations (Based on Topics)
Man - Death & Dying - Life - Time - Emotions - Reality - Poets - Animals - People - Smiling - Art - English - War & Peace - Literature - Society & Civilization - Nature - Beauty - Money & Wealth - Faces - View All John Fowles Quotations
More John Fowles Quotations (By Book Titles)
- The Collector
- The Magus
Franz Kafka - V. S. Naipaul - Thomas Hardy - Pearl S. Buck - P. D. James - James Clavell - Honore de Balzac - Gabriel Garcia Marquez - Boris Pasternak - Alexander Dumas