John Fowles
John Fowles
John Robert Fowleswas an English novelist of international stature, critically positioned between modernism and postmodernism. His work reflects the influence of Jean-Paul Sartre and Albert Camus, among others...
NationalityEnglish
ProfessionNovelist
Date of Birth31 March 1926
allowed burning cannot creatures felt form glad imagine reality seemed single survive
So I felt this burning summer. In form I mightbelong to humankind; in reality I seemed one of aravenous self-destroying horde of rats.I am glad there is no God. If there were,I cannot imagine that we rampant, myopic, andinsatiably self-centred creatures shouldbe allowed to survive a single day more
allowed belong burning cannot creatures felt form glad imagine might reality seemed single survive
So I felt this burning summer. In form I might belong to humankind; in reality I seemed one of a ravenous self-destroying horde of rats. I am glad there is no God. If there were, I cannot imagine that we rampant, myopic, and insatiably self-centred creatures should be allowed to survive a single day more
sympathy reality historical
Whatever sympathy I feel towards religions, whatever admiration for some of their adherents, whatever historical or biological necessity I see in them, whatever metaphorical truth, I cannot accept them as credible explanations of reality; and they are incredible to me in proportion to the degree that they require my belief in positive human attributes and intervenient powers in their divinities.
ignorance writing reality
The absurdly neurotic role you and the rest of your kind have always attributed to me Erato, the Goddess Muse of Erotic Poetry bears no relation at all to reality. As a matter of fact, I was trained as a clinical psychologist. Who simply happens to have specialized in the mental illness that you, in your ignorance, call literature.
kings reality long
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.
animal cannot die rest
You are like a porcupine. When the animal has its spines erect, it cannot eat. If you do not eat, you will starve. And your prickles will die with the rest of your body.
poets simply words
We all write poems; it is simply that the poets are the ones who write in words
hate jealous mean
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.
forget happens
Forgetting’s not something you do, it happens to you. Only it didn’t happen to me.
almost far fell trap
I can see it is very far from being universally well written. I fell into almost every trap awaiting the tyro writer.
mean sleep writing
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
life attitude men
Only fools think our attitude to our fellow men is a thing distinct from our attitude to 'lesser' life on this planet.
light skins
Between skin and skin, there is only light.
music art creative
Thomas Beecham was a pompous little band-master who stood against everything creative in the art of his time.