John Fowles, author of The Collector, The Magus and Daniel Martin, can barely passing; his speech is slurred and his gaze is rheumy. Fowles has not written a novel (since A Maggot ) for 18 years and his newly create diaries are almost certain to be his last work.
However, as he says: I do think a lot, though. The intellect that has blind readers since the publication of The Collector 40 years ago is mute razor-sharp, if haphazard. His recall is patchy, and he is forever wafting a questioning handwriting at Sarah, his second wife: She is my memory now. He periodically forgets the titles of his books, referring to The Magus as that Greek book I wrote a yearn time ago and Daniel Martin as me in America.
This is probably the last discourse John Fowles will do. In 1988, two years originally Elizabeth, his wife of 33 years, died of cancer, he had a stroke, followed by sum total surgery. Today, he is nursed at his rambling seaside bema in Lyme Regis by Sarah, 20 years his junior , an emeritus friend of Elizabeths. They make a touching couple. He is her sick pig; Fowles calls her Rats: She of the dishonour Auburn Tresses.
Fowles is constantly tripping off at unusual tangents, zooming from his fathers ghastly attempt at a novel to his love of France, a recurrent theme: I think in French, you know. He looks crossways to his wife, sitting quietly in the corner. Can I say that? She shrugs indulgently: You do what you fucking like. Sheepish, he grins. This is, I realise, by outlying(prenominal) the best way of dealing with Fowles, as a supremely gifted but slightly naughty schoolboy. Sarah, who handles him in the mien of some public school matron, says wearily: I do love him, but it is very difficult. He is demanding beyond belief.
Fowles is hard work. A born recluse, he despises parties and pomp, is uneasy around other writers - he dislikes vain Martin Amis in particular - and shuns fame even more than he craves attention. thereof his...If you want to get a full essay, order it on our website: Orderessay
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