Mr. Fowles, you are a bastard.
Yes, yes , you are still that bastard. You do not allow a normal life with your books, each of which causes a small tsunami of emotions in a single apartment. I wanted to throw your thrice-damned "Collector" against the wall until the neighbors from below call the police or until it falls apart into a hundred of its vile pages. Your "Magus" wants to be kissed at night and covered with a blanket. To drop everything again tomorrow and read-read-read…
John Robert Fowles was born in Leigh-on-Sea, a small town in Essex. He recalled the English suburban culture of the 1930s as oppressively conformist and his family life as intensely conventional. Of his childhood, Fowles said "I have tried to escape ever since."
Your disgusting "Collector", read 10 years ago, all these 10 years I had nightmares - as if it was all happening to me, yeah. You described it all in such a way that for all 10 years I felt all the pain and devastation that fell on Miranda in that disgusting basement next to your bastard Caliban. No, I'm not complaining - you also managed to cure me of these nightmares. Because now I'm dreaming of your Magus.
I understand it, with the only difference being that my bed is now stubbornly "floating" to the island of Fraxos (hell, this island doesn't even exist, you made it up, so I really have nowhere to go!). To the island, where the main character named Nicholas is experiencing your bastard experiment over and over again, where the pervert Conchis (what a surname!) And now I can already hear how the pines smell under the Greek sun, and I see how, right before my eyes, your gop company begins torturing an innocent teacher. Either they will play a scene from the myths of Ancient Greece in front of him, or they will bring to life the stories told by Konchis, or they seem to confess almost everything, but every time sincerity will turn into a lie, and love into betrayal.
Well, really, what kind of cruelty is an endless game that no one really understands, streams of lies and delirium, constantly changing guises of heroes, incredibly intricate theatrical scenes that a gang of idiots who have lost their minds are constantly playing in front of him! A theater in which it is obvious from the very first words that this is just a poorly worked out play .. A theater in which the goals, morals and even the elementary course of the script are not clear. And the poor teacher lives in all this, and understands that this is a performance, but he can’t do anything! What a terrible, agonizing psychological experiment that just ends up... But what difference does it make if it's wrong anyway? Wrong, Mr. Fowles! It shouldn't be like this, it's the wrong end to all this torment, and although I can't really explain to you why, I still feel it.
I hate you Mr. Fowles. Do you know why? For the fact that the most disgusting, disgusting, vile and dirty book in the world, as well as the most ingenious, beautiful, amazing, magical book in the world, were written by the same person. For the fact that the most hated for me and the most beloved, the best are yours. For the fact that I cannot, with a clear conscience, curse you for the "Collector", because I am infinitely grateful for every line, for every your intoxicating word in the "Magus". Because, despite all the cruelty and pain that he is filled with, he is really beautiful.
"Henry, I sent you a book by such and such a fantasy writer a week ago, and you are reading some Fowles!"
I will probably remember these words of my girlfriend forever. Because - Henry, it's time for you to work, and you are reading some Fowles; Henry, it's time for lunch, and you're reading some Fowles; Henry, it's time for bed, and you're reading some Fowles. You are a real bastard, Mr. Fowles, because of you I had to change my life quite a lot. Because because of you I won't be able to read anything for a long time. Because now I don’t want to wake up because of you, because all these heroes of yours are still cheerfully trampling on my soul in search of new theatrical scenarios. And do you know why I hate you the most? For the fact that I am only grateful to you for all this.
This article was sponsored by Vlad Gorny
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