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Colecționarul
Colecționarul, primul roman al lui John Fowles, este o carte cu o conceptie absolut originala, despre pasiunea unui functionar neinsemnat. Un tinar timid, asocial, el este usor-usor cuprins de nevinovata bucurie de a colectiona obiecte. Odata cu primirea unei mosteniri consistente, mica lui placere ia proportii si ajunge treptat sa-i domine viata. Destinul sau capata o intorsatura neobisnuita atunci cind rapeste si sechestreaza o studenta la Arte Frumoase, incercind sa stabileasca astfel o legatura afectiva imposibila intre el si victima.
291 pages, Kindle Edition
First published May 1, 1963
About the author
John Fowles
121 books2,767 followersJohn 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."
Fowles attended Bedford School, a large boarding school designed to prepare boys for university, from ages 13 to 18. After briefly attending the University of Edinburgh, Fowles began compulsory military service in 1945 with training at Dartmoor, where he spent the next two years. World War II ended shortly after his training began so Fowles never came near combat, and by 1947 he had decided that the military life was not for him.
Fowles then spent four years at Oxford, where he discovered the writings of the French existentialists. In particular he admired Albert Camus and Jean-Paul Sartre, whose writings corresponded with his own ideas about conformity and the will of the individual. He received a degree in French in 1950 and began to consider a career as a writer.
Several teaching jobs followed: a year lecturing in English literature at the University of Poitiers, France; two years teaching English at Anargyrios College on the Greek island of Spetsai; and finally, between 1954 and 1963, teaching English at St. Godric's College in London, where he ultimately served as the department head.
The time spent in Greece was of great importance to Fowles. During his tenure on the island he began to write poetry and to overcome a long-time repression about writing. Between 1952 and 1960 he wrote several novels but offered none to a publisher, considering them all incomplete in some way and too lengthy.
In late 1960 Fowles completed the first draft of The Collector in just four weeks. He continued to revise it until the summer of 1962, when he submitted it to a publisher; it appeared in the spring of 1963 and was an immediate best-seller. The critical acclaim and commercial success of the book allowed Fowles to devote all of his time to writing.
The Aristos, a collection of philosophical thoughts and musings on art, human nature and other subjects, appeared the following year. Then in 1965, The Magus - drafts of which Fowles had been working on for over a decade - was published.
The most commercially successful of Fowles' novels, The French Lieutenant's Woman, appeared in 1969. It resembles a Victorian novel in structure and detail, while pushing the traditional boundaries of narrative in a very modern manner.
In the 1970s Fowles worked on a variety of literary projects--including a series of essays on nature--and in 1973 he published a collection of poetry, Poems.
Daniel Martin, a long and somewhat autobiographical novel spanning over 40 years in the life of a screenwriter, appeared in 1977, along with a revised version of The Magus. These were followed by Mantissa (1982), a fable about a novelist's struggle with his muse; and A Maggot (1985), an 18th century mystery which combines science fiction and history.
In addition to The Aristos, Fowles wrote a variety of non-fiction pieces including many essays, reviews, and forewords/afterwords to other writers' novels. He also wrote the text for several photographic compilations.
From 1968, Fowles lived in the small harbour town of Lyme Regis, Dorset. His interest in the town's local history resulted in his appointment as curator of the Lyme Regis Museum in 1979, a position he filled for a decade.
Wormholes, a book of essays, was published in May 1998. The first comprehensive biography on Fowles, John Fowles: A Life in Two Worlds, was published in 2004, and the first volume of his journals appeared the same year (followed recently by volume two).
John Fowles passed away on November 5, 2005 after a long illness.
Fowles attended Bedford School, a large boarding school designed to prepare boys for university, from ages 13 to 18. After briefly attending the University of Edinburgh, Fowles began compulsory military service in 1945 with training at Dartmoor, where he spent the next two years. World War II ended shortly after his training began so Fowles never came near combat, and by 1947 he had decided that the military life was not for him.
Fowles then spent four years at Oxford, where he discovered the writings of the French existentialists. In particular he admired Albert Camus and Jean-Paul Sartre, whose writings corresponded with his own ideas about conformity and the will of the individual. He received a degree in French in 1950 and began to consider a career as a writer.
Several teaching jobs followed: a year lecturing in English literature at the University of Poitiers, France; two years teaching English at Anargyrios College on the Greek island of Spetsai; and finally, between 1954 and 1963, teaching English at St. Godric's College in London, where he ultimately served as the department head.
The time spent in Greece was of great importance to Fowles. During his tenure on the island he began to write poetry and to overcome a long-time repression about writing. Between 1952 and 1960 he wrote several novels but offered none to a publisher, considering them all incomplete in some way and too lengthy.
In late 1960 Fowles completed the first draft of The Collector in just four weeks. He continued to revise it until the summer of 1962, when he submitted it to a publisher; it appeared in the spring of 1963 and was an immediate best-seller. The critical acclaim and commercial success of the book allowed Fowles to devote all of his time to writing.
The Aristos, a collection of philosophical thoughts and musings on art, human nature and other subjects, appeared the following year. Then in 1965, The Magus - drafts of which Fowles had been working on for over a decade - was published.
The most commercially successful of Fowles' novels, The French Lieutenant's Woman, appeared in 1969. It resembles a Victorian novel in structure and detail, while pushing the traditional boundaries of narrative in a very modern manner.
In the 1970s Fowles worked on a variety of literary projects--including a series of essays on nature--and in 1973 he published a collection of poetry, Poems.
Daniel Martin, a long and somewhat autobiographical novel spanning over 40 years in the life of a screenwriter, appeared in 1977, along with a revised version of The Magus. These were followed by Mantissa (1982), a fable about a novelist's struggle with his muse; and A Maggot (1985), an 18th century mystery which combines science fiction and history.
In addition to The Aristos, Fowles wrote a variety of non-fiction pieces including many essays, reviews, and forewords/afterwords to other writers' novels. He also wrote the text for several photographic compilations.
From 1968, Fowles lived in the small harbour town of Lyme Regis, Dorset. His interest in the town's local history resulted in his appointment as curator of the Lyme Regis Museum in 1979, a position he filled for a decade.
Wormholes, a book of essays, was published in May 1998. The first comprehensive biography on Fowles, John Fowles: A Life in Two Worlds, was published in 2004, and the first volume of his journals appeared the same year (followed recently by volume two).
John Fowles passed away on November 5, 2005 after a long illness.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 6,634 reviews
April 8, 2010
Rather than go into the plot details I'd rather touch on the larger metaphors of the book in this review. Although the basic plot is chilling enough on its own (A man kidnaps a beautiful and intelligent young girl) the parts that truly disturbed me had to do more with what I believe Fowles was saying about modern culture and the rise of the middle class. Though this book is decidedly "British" in many ways, I think the issues he raises are applicable to any society where a large middle class is created in a relatively short amount of time. For me, this book is asking whether financial stability really leads to morality and more fulfilling lives (as in Major Barbara) or if perhaps we actually lose our souls once our bellies are fed.
As some have mentioned in other reviews, Miranda is the stereotypical posh young artist. Born rich, it's easy for her to dismiss the complaints of the lower classes while at the same time hurling scorn at the society that produced her. I've met many people like Miranda (especially during my Masters at Columbia School of the Arts where trust fund babies were the norm, I went to school with a Pulitzer heiress for goodness sake) and usually found them boring and shallow, quick to namedrop an artist or recite tired rhetoric. But as her story progressed I began to like her more and more; Miranda is extremely self-aware, and I sensed that given time, she would grow out of her naivety and become a truly amazing woman. She is only 20 after all, barely an adult, and for all her idealistic pretension she is trying to evolve and grow (something that's can't be said for many of my Columbia peers). That's where the butterfly metaphor becomes even more apt; it's not just that she's a butterfly that Frederick has collected, it's what a butterfly represents: metamorphoses. It's almost as if Frederick has trapped her right when she was about to break out of her cocoon, halting her true beauty right before she was about to spread her wings.
Which brings me to Frederick as a stand-in for middle-class mediocrity. Reading this book, I was often reminded of the idea that the opposite of love is not hate, but indifference. Frederick is indifferent to everything: art, war, sex, etc. The only thing he seems to respond to is a fleeting type of beauty, and all he wants to do with that beauty is possess it. Not love it, not understand it, just possess it. His need to possess is similar to the middle classes need to buy buy buy with no thought as to why it’s important to own the largest house, drive the nicest car or watch the most expensive television. As we’ve seen with the rise of divorce, prescription drugs, therapy, suicides and the general malaise of the populace during the latter half of the 20th century these things rarely produce happiness, if anything they produce more anxiety as credit debt rises while wages fall. What Fowles seems to be asking is “what are we doing with all this money and success, are we living more stable fulfilling lives, or are we turning into something just as bad or worse than the elite we despise?” Frederick’s winning the lottery should have been an opportunity for him to live the life he wanted free of economic worries, not a chance to commit evil. Similarly, the rise of the middle class in America and the UK should have been a renaissance of ideas once our bellies were fed. In many ways it was (the civil rights and feminist movements come to mind), but in others, like the rise of reality television, celebrity culture and punditry news, our success has just made us comfortable and indifferent to human suffering. We go on collecting pop music, techno gadgets, houses, cars, spouses, designer clothes, with no question or investigation as to why. With the internet we have the opportunity to learn about anything and everything, for the first time in history the entire history of the world is available at our fingertips. Why then does misinformation and stupidity seem to be on the rise rather then the reverse? Why then are we becoming less literate rather than more? Why when given the world, we’re choosing the slum instead?
I agree with Miranda when she says art collectors are the worst offenders. The idea that art is merely an investment (just like the idea that a house is merely an investment rather than a home you share your life in) is abhorrent to me. I could never stand to look at an ugly painting in my home just because it was worth money, nor could I ever live with myself if I hoarded Picassos or Bacons or Kirchners purely for my own benefit. Because the true lover of beauty (and not all beauty is beautiful as Bacon proves) wants to share that beauty with the world. They want everyone to see, hear, taste, feel, and enjoy that beauty so that others lives may be enriched as well. They want everyone to feel as passionately as they do about what they love, but more importantly they just want others to feel. (the example of the American soldier in the book comes to mind) Anyone, regardless of class, money, status etc., is capable of living passionately and truthfully. Frederick is a perfect example of someone who chooses not to, or worse, just doesn’t really care either way.
As some have mentioned in other reviews, Miranda is the stereotypical posh young artist. Born rich, it's easy for her to dismiss the complaints of the lower classes while at the same time hurling scorn at the society that produced her. I've met many people like Miranda (especially during my Masters at Columbia School of the Arts where trust fund babies were the norm, I went to school with a Pulitzer heiress for goodness sake) and usually found them boring and shallow, quick to namedrop an artist or recite tired rhetoric. But as her story progressed I began to like her more and more; Miranda is extremely self-aware, and I sensed that given time, she would grow out of her naivety and become a truly amazing woman. She is only 20 after all, barely an adult, and for all her idealistic pretension she is trying to evolve and grow (something that's can't be said for many of my Columbia peers). That's where the butterfly metaphor becomes even more apt; it's not just that she's a butterfly that Frederick has collected, it's what a butterfly represents: metamorphoses. It's almost as if Frederick has trapped her right when she was about to break out of her cocoon, halting her true beauty right before she was about to spread her wings.
Which brings me to Frederick as a stand-in for middle-class mediocrity. Reading this book, I was often reminded of the idea that the opposite of love is not hate, but indifference. Frederick is indifferent to everything: art, war, sex, etc. The only thing he seems to respond to is a fleeting type of beauty, and all he wants to do with that beauty is possess it. Not love it, not understand it, just possess it. His need to possess is similar to the middle classes need to buy buy buy with no thought as to why it’s important to own the largest house, drive the nicest car or watch the most expensive television. As we’ve seen with the rise of divorce, prescription drugs, therapy, suicides and the general malaise of the populace during the latter half of the 20th century these things rarely produce happiness, if anything they produce more anxiety as credit debt rises while wages fall. What Fowles seems to be asking is “what are we doing with all this money and success, are we living more stable fulfilling lives, or are we turning into something just as bad or worse than the elite we despise?” Frederick’s winning the lottery should have been an opportunity for him to live the life he wanted free of economic worries, not a chance to commit evil. Similarly, the rise of the middle class in America and the UK should have been a renaissance of ideas once our bellies were fed. In many ways it was (the civil rights and feminist movements come to mind), but in others, like the rise of reality television, celebrity culture and punditry news, our success has just made us comfortable and indifferent to human suffering. We go on collecting pop music, techno gadgets, houses, cars, spouses, designer clothes, with no question or investigation as to why. With the internet we have the opportunity to learn about anything and everything, for the first time in history the entire history of the world is available at our fingertips. Why then does misinformation and stupidity seem to be on the rise rather then the reverse? Why then are we becoming less literate rather than more? Why when given the world, we’re choosing the slum instead?
I agree with Miranda when she says art collectors are the worst offenders. The idea that art is merely an investment (just like the idea that a house is merely an investment rather than a home you share your life in) is abhorrent to me. I could never stand to look at an ugly painting in my home just because it was worth money, nor could I ever live with myself if I hoarded Picassos or Bacons or Kirchners purely for my own benefit. Because the true lover of beauty (and not all beauty is beautiful as Bacon proves) wants to share that beauty with the world. They want everyone to see, hear, taste, feel, and enjoy that beauty so that others lives may be enriched as well. They want everyone to feel as passionately as they do about what they love, but more importantly they just want others to feel. (the example of the American soldier in the book comes to mind) Anyone, regardless of class, money, status etc., is capable of living passionately and truthfully. Frederick is a perfect example of someone who chooses not to, or worse, just doesn’t really care either way.
June 24, 2022
I read this when I was very young. Young enough that anything with a sexual connotation was interesting to me. Even really perverse deviations like this.
A collector of butterflies 'collects' a girl and holds her prisoner. His deviation is far deeper than merely sex. But of course, sex is implied all the time.
There are two sorts of kept women, those gold-diggers who actively sought it, and those trophy wives who had never planned for it and had been actively courted. This is a trophy wife by force, not a sex slave but a 'wife'.
It's a very original story, writing at it's finest. And it's creepy, very very creepy.
There are a lot of excellent reviews on GR about this book, but in my opinion they all give far too much away. The book is like an onion. The outside skin, then the world within, layer upon layer. And at it's resolution, quite unexpectedly there is a tiny green shoot. Every detail you know about the story or the characters will take away a layer for you.
5 star read, a gold five star.
A collector of butterflies 'collects' a girl and holds her prisoner. His deviation is far deeper than merely sex. But of course, sex is implied all the time.
There are two sorts of kept women, those gold-diggers who actively sought it, and those trophy wives who had never planned for it and had been actively courted. This is a trophy wife by force, not a sex slave but a 'wife'.
It's a very original story, writing at it's finest. And it's creepy, very very creepy.
There are a lot of excellent reviews on GR about this book, but in my opinion they all give far too much away. The book is like an onion. The outside skin, then the world within, layer upon layer. And at it's resolution, quite unexpectedly there is a tiny green shoot. Every detail you know about the story or the characters will take away a layer for you.
5 star read, a gold five star.
November 30, 2018
This is one of those boy meets girl, chloroforms her, throws her in the back of the van and stuffs her in his basement type stories. I knew that already and so I was really not expecting to be coshed on the head and chucked down in the basement as well, and tied hands and feet, and gagged, so that all I could hear was the quiet reasonable voice of working-class loner Fred Clegg, aged 22, explaining how he’d fallen in love from afar with the unattainable art student Miranda Grey, & since he was much too shy to go up & speak to her, the only way he could figure out how to meet her and get her to really see the kind of person he was (a good person with proper values, not the upper class idiots she was hanging around with) was to chloroform her and stuff her in his basement.
Normally a lowly clerk could not do any such thing, but Fred had a stroke of luck, he won the modern equivalent of £1.6 million on the football pools (1960s version of the National Lottery) so he could ditch his family & buy an isolated cottage with a lovely big cellar.
Fred explains (for 122 pages) how attentive to her every whim he was, how this was the gentlest form of kidnapping ever, and aside from the initial drugging & throwing in the van and the alas necessary gagging and binding from time to time (otherwise she’d escape, probably, as she had not yet come to see what a good person with proper values he was) all she had to do was express a casual desire for Mozart quartets, caviar and Beaujolais and he would roar off in the van and get it. Fred is the sweetest psycho ever! The kindest and most attentive! He doesn’t even want to perform any kind of carnal irregularities with Miranda – he thinks that sex before marriage is wrong! No slurping and grunting at all!
Anyway, after 122 pages of this fascinating and truly awful yet completely believable reasonable you-would-have-done-the-same mad droning, suddenly there’s a jump cut & we get 150 pages of Miranda retelling the whole story in her secret diary. This is nearly the hardest part of the novel to read because Miranda turns out to be a ghastly art snob with a fixation on an old enough to be her father boho painter-shagster & so one is torn between being horrified at her bleak situation which increasingly looks as if it will not end well (I mean, really, when a relationship starts with chloroform and basements it is has probably got off on the wrong foot) and being horrified at the seething embarrassments of class and sex and posturing, pomposity and pettiness revealed in these seemingly neverending jottings. This is a brilliant stroke by John Fowles and really messes with your mind. As does the whole book.
After that things just go badly.
Normally a lowly clerk could not do any such thing, but Fred had a stroke of luck, he won the modern equivalent of £1.6 million on the football pools (1960s version of the National Lottery) so he could ditch his family & buy an isolated cottage with a lovely big cellar.
Fred explains (for 122 pages) how attentive to her every whim he was, how this was the gentlest form of kidnapping ever, and aside from the initial drugging & throwing in the van and the alas necessary gagging and binding from time to time (otherwise she’d escape, probably, as she had not yet come to see what a good person with proper values he was) all she had to do was express a casual desire for Mozart quartets, caviar and Beaujolais and he would roar off in the van and get it. Fred is the sweetest psycho ever! The kindest and most attentive! He doesn’t even want to perform any kind of carnal irregularities with Miranda – he thinks that sex before marriage is wrong! No slurping and grunting at all!
Anyway, after 122 pages of this fascinating and truly awful yet completely believable reasonable you-would-have-done-the-same mad droning, suddenly there’s a jump cut & we get 150 pages of Miranda retelling the whole story in her secret diary. This is nearly the hardest part of the novel to read because Miranda turns out to be a ghastly art snob with a fixation on an old enough to be her father boho painter-shagster & so one is torn between being horrified at her bleak situation which increasingly looks as if it will not end well (I mean, really, when a relationship starts with chloroform and basements it is has probably got off on the wrong foot) and being horrified at the seething embarrassments of class and sex and posturing, pomposity and pettiness revealed in these seemingly neverending jottings. This is a brilliant stroke by John Fowles and really messes with your mind. As does the whole book.
After that things just go badly.
October 2, 2024
The collector must collect… And the hero of The Collector collects…
He started with butterflies… They are so beautiful… But young beautiful girls are even more alluring… Is it possible to collect at least one? And probably everything will end up in great love after all…
Love isn’t a collectable item that does furnish a room.
He started with butterflies… They are so beautiful… But young beautiful girls are even more alluring… Is it possible to collect at least one? And probably everything will end up in great love after all…
‘Do you think you’ll make me love you by keeping me prisoner?’
I want you to get to know me.
‘As long as I’m here you’ll just be a kidnapper to me. You know that?’
I got up. I didn’t want to be with her any more.
‘Wait,’ she said, coming towards me, ‘I’ll make a promise. I understand. Really. Let me go. I’ll tell no one, and nothing will happen.’
It was the first time she’d given me a kind look. She was saying, trust me, plain as words. A little smile round her eyes, looking up at me. All eager.
‘You could. We could be friends. I could help you.’
Looking up at me there.
‘It’s not too late.’
I couldn’t say what I felt, I just had to leave her; she was really hurting me. So I closed the door and left her. I didn’t even say good night.
Love isn’t a collectable item that does furnish a room.
March 22, 2023
Rounded down from roughly 3.5 stars ⭐️
The Collector follows Frederick, a young man who collects butterflies and is completely obsessed by Miranda, a young woman he has seen around. When fortune strikes, Frederick comes up with a plan to capture Miranda so that she can grow to love him.
This was a very mixed read for me. I absolutely loved Frederick’s pages. Getting inside his head was so fascinating I didn’t want to stop reading! He is just the creepy protagonist that I wanted, but he also had a great deal of depth and intrigue. The portrayal of Frederick’s character was excellently done. Although I did find it difficult to get used to the complete lack of chapters in his sections initially. It reads like a running commentary and works well, I’ve just never read a book structured as this was before!
However, I really struggled with Miranda’s perspective. I found her to be a completely unlikeable character. The more I read, the greater my dislike grew for her. Although I do like how the real her contrasted to the image I’d gathered of her initially. Miranda’s sections often felt more like a lecture, they slowed the pace and I lost my focus. If I was able to connect to her, I may still have enjoyed it. But unfortunately her character lost all of my interest. Overall, I’m very glad I read this haunting classic, even if it’s not a favouite for me!
I would recommend this book to fans of dark classic literature.
The Collector follows Frederick, a young man who collects butterflies and is completely obsessed by Miranda, a young woman he has seen around. When fortune strikes, Frederick comes up with a plan to capture Miranda so that she can grow to love him.
This was a very mixed read for me. I absolutely loved Frederick’s pages. Getting inside his head was so fascinating I didn’t want to stop reading! He is just the creepy protagonist that I wanted, but he also had a great deal of depth and intrigue. The portrayal of Frederick’s character was excellently done. Although I did find it difficult to get used to the complete lack of chapters in his sections initially. It reads like a running commentary and works well, I’ve just never read a book structured as this was before!
However, I really struggled with Miranda’s perspective. I found her to be a completely unlikeable character. The more I read, the greater my dislike grew for her. Although I do like how the real her contrasted to the image I’d gathered of her initially. Miranda’s sections often felt more like a lecture, they slowed the pace and I lost my focus. If I was able to connect to her, I may still have enjoyed it. But unfortunately her character lost all of my interest. Overall, I’m very glad I read this haunting classic, even if it’s not a favouite for me!
I would recommend this book to fans of dark classic literature.
February 11, 2020
Fredrick is a clerk and butterfly collector who wins some money that lets him retire. Fredrick is lonely and has trouble getting along with others, the only people he really has are his aunt and cousin. He watches an art student named Miranda who starts to become his obsession. When he suddenly has a lot of free time and money on his hands, his daydreams about Miranda turn dark and he plans to kidnap her and hold her hostage in the cellar of an old cottage he buys until she gets to know him and falls in love with him.
I really enjoyed the book personally, I liked the writing style and even though its about something macabre Fowles doesn't make it exploitative or gore-y to shock the reader. A lot of the focus is on the characters change and development as well as their thought process through out. I think it's really well done, both the Fredrick and Miranda parts are distinct and feel like two separate people. Everything unfolding the way it does felt so real too, the way Fredrick distances himself from what he's doing and tries to justify it, insisting he doesn't mean to do it until he does it even though everything is being meticulously planned. Also Miranda's conflicted feelings over Fredrick and her slow breakdown from living confined and alone.
I originally read this book because I was listening to last podcast on the left (which I recommend to anyone who likes cults or serial killers but isn't sensitive to jokes that may be considered offensive) and they mention Leonard Lake being obsessed with the book. I checked and there are multiple murders associated with the book and so I just wanted to see what about this book was causing all these people to feel like yes killing is great. Anyways the only thing I can come up with is that since the book was published in the 1960s there wasn't as much about sadistic killers or people doing crimes like these out there so it appealed to them and Fowles does such a good job capturing a certain kind of personality in Fredrick that people really identified with it. It also gave them a good model of how to escalate to the point of doing things like kidnapping and murdering because really in the book Fredrick just starts off by dreaming about it and it goes from there. That's all I've got because so I'm not sure why that would inspire Leonard Lake to want a slave that he can use for sex and to take care of the house?
The author in interviews said that the book is about social class and money and I do see that much more clearly in the book than any message about how its a good idea to kidnap women. I'm not sure how much I agree with the social commentary though probably because it has been decades since the book has been written. I do understand the point that money and idle time given to people can lead to them doing things they might not have otherwise but I don't think the class or money is the problem so much as the person themselves.
I really enjoyed the book personally, I liked the writing style and even though its about something macabre Fowles doesn't make it exploitative or gore-y to shock the reader. A lot of the focus is on the characters change and development as well as their thought process through out. I think it's really well done, both the Fredrick and Miranda parts are distinct and feel like two separate people. Everything unfolding the way it does felt so real too, the way Fredrick distances himself from what he's doing and tries to justify it, insisting he doesn't mean to do it until he does it even though everything is being meticulously planned. Also Miranda's conflicted feelings over Fredrick and her slow breakdown from living confined and alone.
I originally read this book because I was listening to last podcast on the left (which I recommend to anyone who likes cults or serial killers but isn't sensitive to jokes that may be considered offensive) and they mention Leonard Lake being obsessed with the book. I checked and there are multiple murders associated with the book and so I just wanted to see what about this book was causing all these people to feel like yes killing is great. Anyways the only thing I can come up with is that since the book was published in the 1960s there wasn't as much about sadistic killers or people doing crimes like these out there so it appealed to them and Fowles does such a good job capturing a certain kind of personality in Fredrick that people really identified with it. It also gave them a good model of how to escalate to the point of doing things like kidnapping and murdering because really in the book Fredrick just starts off by dreaming about it and it goes from there. That's all I've got because so I'm not sure why that would inspire Leonard Lake to want a slave that he can use for sex and to take care of the house?
The author in interviews said that the book is about social class and money and I do see that much more clearly in the book than any message about how its a good idea to kidnap women. I'm not sure how much I agree with the social commentary though probably because it has been decades since the book has been written. I do understand the point that money and idle time given to people can lead to them doing things they might not have otherwise but I don't think the class or money is the problem so much as the person themselves.
January 31, 2021
Sin tener nada que ver ni en el estilo ni en la trama, me ha recordado mucho a Extraños en un tren por el hecho de que la víctima se vea envuelta en la fantasía de otro y la impotencia que ella siente ante la imposibilidad de hacer ver a ese otro lo delirante de su propósito. También en ambos libros el personaje es un ser débil, frustrado, con problemas sexuales, con una figura materna (una tía en este caso) dominante.
Muy, muy recomendable: la parte final de la novela se lee con el corazón en un puño, y el resto de la novela con ganas de utilizar ese puño para otros menesteres.
Muy, muy recomendable: la parte final de la novela se lee con el corazón en un puño, y el resto de la novela con ganas de utilizar ese puño para otros menesteres.
February 7, 2019
This novel was unlike anything I’ve read before and the character of Frederick will certainly leave a lasting memory. I don’t think there’s been a character that’s made my skin crawl or forced me to talk back (shout!) at a book on so many an occasion – well done Fowles!I definitely think Book Readers should have this book on their shelf.
June 25, 2018
Com licença, eu volto aqui pra escrever algo decente quando a minha pressão sair do meu pé.
August 14, 2012
Impotent sociopath kidnaps beautiful art student. Told (partly) from the sociopath's perspective. That's my jam! I should have loved this book!
But something left me cold. I suppose it may have been all the bitching and complaining the beautiful art student did in her stupid diary. What a helpless twit!
Not to imply that I'd be brave and cunning or anything...if someone kidnapped me. In fact, I'm pretty sure I'd be a helpless twit as well. But I'll be goddamned if I'd expect anyone to enjoy reading the daily chronicles of what a helpless twit I'd been.
The ending really made me smile, though. The creepy ending made it all worthwhile. Crazy fucker.
But something left me cold. I suppose it may have been all the bitching and complaining the beautiful art student did in her stupid diary. What a helpless twit!
Not to imply that I'd be brave and cunning or anything...if someone kidnapped me. In fact, I'm pretty sure I'd be a helpless twit as well. But I'll be goddamned if I'd expect anyone to enjoy reading the daily chronicles of what a helpless twit I'd been.
The ending really made me smile, though. The creepy ending made it all worthwhile. Crazy fucker.
April 4, 2021
It's been hard for me to focus lately – gee, I wonder why?
Over the past month, I've begun several books, lost interest, shelved them. I once imagined that if I had hours and hours to read, I'd finally get around to War and Peace or Remembrance of Things Past. Instead, I find myself studying grim news items and statistics, scrolling through memes on social media, staring blankly out my window onto empty streets and watching old black and white movies or TV shows I've missed over the past decade. All while trying to work from home while I still have a job.
Then I came across this book.
I knew vaguely what it was about, having long ago seen the acclaimed 1965 movie adaptation starring Terence Stamp and Samantha Eggar. About 50 pages in, I realized it was the perfect book to read in (semi) quarantine.
Ferdinand, a.k.a. Frederick, Clegg is a nondescript 20-something clerk in London who collects butterflies and has one other obsession: Miranda, a young, attractive art student he's seen and stalked. When he wins the pools (the UK equivalent of the lottery), he decides to abduct Miranda and keep her in the house he's bought in the country, complete with highly secure cellar, which he's outfitted for the newest item in his collection.
That's essentially the story. Miranda tries to escape, of course, and Ferdinand tries to stop her. She requests items from town, including some things that could perhaps hint that she's that missing girl from the art college. Above all, she tries to find out what Ferdinand wants from her.
What's so fascinating about John Fowles's first novel is that it has the outline of a thriller but it's really so much more.
While the first part of the book is told from Ferdinand's POV – Fowles is very good at getting inside the twisted mind of what we might call an "incel" today – the second switches to Miranda's POV, and it's here that the book gets really interesting.
Miranda keeps a secret diary, and through her accounts of her time in the cellar we see different takes on scenes we've already witnessed. Plus, she's got obsessions of her own, including a much older semi-famous artist. While it's easy to have sympathy for her in the first part – she's clearly a victim – things get more complicated when we read her thoughts about class, education, physical beauty and art in the second.
What makes this such an effective quarantine novel is how isolated and trapped Miranda feels, removed from her friends, her family, her home. She longs to breathe fresh air, look up into the sky. She misses even the simplest, most banal activities. Through her diary, you can also see how her entrapment has changed her feelings about life, art and freedom.
There are lots of literary references – to The Tempest, of course, with Miranda referring to Clegg as her Caliban – and Emma, but also to more contemporary books about other anti-social characters like The Catcher in the Rye and Saturday Night and Sunday Morning. The discussions about art are thoughtful and engaging.
This novel must have made a huge splash when it appeared in the 1960s, decades before such fiction became a subgenre. It's very different from the other Fowles book I've read, the delightfully postmodern The French Lieutenant's Woman.
Based on this, I'm definitely going to seek out – and perhaps, um, collect – some of his other novels.
Over the past month, I've begun several books, lost interest, shelved them. I once imagined that if I had hours and hours to read, I'd finally get around to War and Peace or Remembrance of Things Past. Instead, I find myself studying grim news items and statistics, scrolling through memes on social media, staring blankly out my window onto empty streets and watching old black and white movies or TV shows I've missed over the past decade. All while trying to work from home while I still have a job.
Then I came across this book.
I knew vaguely what it was about, having long ago seen the acclaimed 1965 movie adaptation starring Terence Stamp and Samantha Eggar. About 50 pages in, I realized it was the perfect book to read in (semi) quarantine.
Ferdinand, a.k.a. Frederick, Clegg is a nondescript 20-something clerk in London who collects butterflies and has one other obsession: Miranda, a young, attractive art student he's seen and stalked. When he wins the pools (the UK equivalent of the lottery), he decides to abduct Miranda and keep her in the house he's bought in the country, complete with highly secure cellar, which he's outfitted for the newest item in his collection.
That's essentially the story. Miranda tries to escape, of course, and Ferdinand tries to stop her. She requests items from town, including some things that could perhaps hint that she's that missing girl from the art college. Above all, she tries to find out what Ferdinand wants from her.
What's so fascinating about John Fowles's first novel is that it has the outline of a thriller but it's really so much more.
While the first part of the book is told from Ferdinand's POV – Fowles is very good at getting inside the twisted mind of what we might call an "incel" today – the second switches to Miranda's POV, and it's here that the book gets really interesting.
Miranda keeps a secret diary, and through her accounts of her time in the cellar we see different takes on scenes we've already witnessed. Plus, she's got obsessions of her own, including a much older semi-famous artist. While it's easy to have sympathy for her in the first part – she's clearly a victim – things get more complicated when we read her thoughts about class, education, physical beauty and art in the second.
What makes this such an effective quarantine novel is how isolated and trapped Miranda feels, removed from her friends, her family, her home. She longs to breathe fresh air, look up into the sky. She misses even the simplest, most banal activities. Through her diary, you can also see how her entrapment has changed her feelings about life, art and freedom.
There are lots of literary references – to The Tempest, of course, with Miranda referring to Clegg as her Caliban – and Emma, but also to more contemporary books about other anti-social characters like The Catcher in the Rye and Saturday Night and Sunday Morning. The discussions about art are thoughtful and engaging.
This novel must have made a huge splash when it appeared in the 1960s, decades before such fiction became a subgenre. It's very different from the other Fowles book I've read, the delightfully postmodern The French Lieutenant's Woman.
Based on this, I'm definitely going to seek out – and perhaps, um, collect – some of his other novels.
July 4, 2024
Yikes. I’m conflicted.
Brilliant and chilling.
I will keep spoilers to a minimum - it’s all in the book blurb anyway.
I’m unsure if this type of ‘abduction’ story was effectively covered prior to the 1960s, when ‘The Collector’ was released, but there have certainly been derivatives since then. Was this the ground breaker? If so, wow.
I’m reluctant to recommend this. The misogyny (deliberate? I sure hope so) may be disturbing to some. It disturbed me. The clashes of class and sense of entitlement may grate on others. It did on me.
If ever a novel set out to manipulate the reader, this is it. I felt well and truly ‘had’.
My initial anger/disgust for the ‘collector’ (euphemism for abductor – he collects dead butterflies, you know) turned to a degree of compassion for him – yuk… I know, I know.
I became irritated by the evolving snobbishness and triviality of the victim (the author made me do it), before returning to disgust and concern. A full circle of reactions. Chilling.
John Fowles is a devious author. That’s why, for me, this novel is brilliant.
----
Footnote: My trusty buddy reader @Marge Moen marked this as ‘to read’ shortly after I listed it as my current read. I convinced her to start it – a buddy read by default. I look forward to take on this one.
Brilliant and chilling.
I will keep spoilers to a minimum - it’s all in the book blurb anyway.
I’m unsure if this type of ‘abduction’ story was effectively covered prior to the 1960s, when ‘The Collector’ was released, but there have certainly been derivatives since then. Was this the ground breaker? If so, wow.
I’m reluctant to recommend this. The misogyny (deliberate? I sure hope so) may be disturbing to some. It disturbed me. The clashes of class and sense of entitlement may grate on others. It did on me.
If ever a novel set out to manipulate the reader, this is it. I felt well and truly ‘had’.
My initial anger/disgust for the ‘collector’ (euphemism for abductor – he collects dead butterflies, you know) turned to a degree of compassion for him – yuk… I know, I know.
I became irritated by the evolving snobbishness and triviality of the victim (the author made me do it), before returning to disgust and concern. A full circle of reactions. Chilling.
John Fowles is a devious author. That’s why, for me, this novel is brilliant.
----
Footnote: My trusty buddy reader @Marge Moen marked this as ‘to read’ shortly after I listed it as my current read. I convinced her to start it – a buddy read by default. I look forward to take on this one.
January 3, 2021
So much for starting the year with a literary bang. This novel made me feel like a dud firework. I didn't find it chilling or claustrophobic. Not once was I creeped out. It did however leave me feeling rather sad, after the glum ending. What I could really do without right now. As soon as the narrative went from the perspective of the possessive kidnapper to the diary entries of the young woman held captive, I was starting to lose interest. Alright, to start off with anyway, I liked reading of her attempts to outwit him and get away, but it just wore off eventually. It may be a case of a decent book that I just happened to read at the wrong time, I don't know. I could think of only a few scenes between Sarah Woodruff and Charles Smithson in The French Lieutenant's Woman that did more for me than the whole of this novel did. I was going for three stars, but considering I really struggled to finish it, it's more likely somewhere around two I'm afraid. As a first novel the writing was pretty good, and that is about all the positives I can give it. I felt nothing for Frederick. Didn't feel pity for him. Nothing. Of course I felt sorrow for Miranda. Poor girl. So, not a great reading experience at all for me. I can't say that I'm that interested in butterflies, but I would rather this had actually been about some nice lovely butterflies, and not feeling locked up. I've had enough of that already!
August 5, 2024
With mixed feelings about this book I will leave a 3 star rating. The second half felt like a basic repeat of the first half. Overall it was a gripping read with a difficult topic.
October 22, 2020
This novel is over fifty years old (...!), and it holds up very well. It is the rudimentary skeleton that is upheld (fleshed by current events, given a brain by contemporary writers) ad nauseum by CSI, Law and Order, Law and Order SVU, Medium, Criminal Minds et al.
Though its semi predictable, the end is nonetheless terribly terrific. That there are two strands of narrative is sometimes a revelation, sometimes an encumbrance (like living through a terrible ordeal not once but twice!). Both psychological documents are wondrous to behold; "The Collector" is a story we've seen usurped once and again in multiple films, TV & novels.
Though its semi predictable, the end is nonetheless terribly terrific. That there are two strands of narrative is sometimes a revelation, sometimes an encumbrance (like living through a terrible ordeal not once but twice!). Both psychological documents are wondrous to behold; "The Collector" is a story we've seen usurped once and again in multiple films, TV & novels.
March 21, 2023
Fucking hell, that was bleak.
Ugh.
Ugh.
August 4, 2017
’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 Collector is the story of Frederick Clegg, an extremely odd and lonely man who also collects butterflies. He’s obsessed with a middle-class art student named Miranda Grey and as he continues admiring her from a distance a plan slowly starts developing in his mind that he would like to have her; like one of his butterflies. He makes preparations by buying a house out in the country, purchasing assorted objects and things he knows she will need, convinced that if he can only capture her and keep her that she will slowly grow to love him.
The first part of the novel was told from Frederick's point of view and it was rather alarming at his thought process. In his mind, there is nothing morally wrong with what he intends to do (and what he actually ends up doing). He recognizes that Miranda is a human being as he takes care of her and provides her everything a human would possibly need, but she’s inevitably nothing more than an object or a collectible item to him. He doesn’t mean to harm her at first; however, it’s evident that as time progresses, he enjoys having power over her and almost finds humor in her attempts to escape.
The second part of the novel was told from Miranda’s point of view through diary entries that she hides underneath her mattress. She writes about G.P. often, a man she met and who ended up having a huge impact on her thoughts and ideals. To Miranda, G.P. was everything she wanted to be and his opinions and thoughts became a set of ‘rules’ for her. At first I had a hard time determining the relevancy of these recollections, but it essentially just became another disturbing piece of the story to see how influential G.P. and his ‘rules’ really were to Miranda.
’He’s made me believe them; it’s the thought of him that makes me feel guilty when I break the rules.’
It was almost expected, however still just as shocking when it becomes glaringly obvious that Miranda slowly begins to take pity on her captor. She starts feeling bad for the harsh things she says to him and she also unconsciously prevents herself from doing him excessive harm during an escape attempt as she feels that if she does she’s descending to his level…It was as if she had simply accepted her situation, and that was the most heartbreaking part.
’And yes, he had more dignity than I did then and I felt small, mean. Always sneering at him, jabbing him, hating him and showing it. It was funny, we sat in silence facing each other and I had a feeling I’ve had once or twice before, of the most peculiar closeness to him—not love or attraction or sympathy in any way. But linked destiny. Like being shipwrecked on an island—a raft—together. In every way not wanting to be together. But together.’
The third and fourth parts of the novel were the most disturbing parts of the entire book. Suffice it to say, it gave me goosebumps. It was not the ending I had anticipated, but I still felt that the author was successful in creating the everlasting effect I believe he intended. Obviously, you understand the severity of Ferdinand’s actions; however, not until the end do you fully understand just how abnormal he really is. This was certainly not a happy book, but one that I’m glad to have read and one that I will likely not forget.
The Collector is the story of Frederick Clegg, an extremely odd and lonely man who also collects butterflies. He’s obsessed with a middle-class art student named Miranda Grey and as he continues admiring her from a distance a plan slowly starts developing in his mind that he would like to have her; like one of his butterflies. He makes preparations by buying a house out in the country, purchasing assorted objects and things he knows she will need, convinced that if he can only capture her and keep her that she will slowly grow to love him.
The first part of the novel was told from Frederick's point of view and it was rather alarming at his thought process. In his mind, there is nothing morally wrong with what he intends to do (and what he actually ends up doing). He recognizes that Miranda is a human being as he takes care of her and provides her everything a human would possibly need, but she’s inevitably nothing more than an object or a collectible item to him. He doesn’t mean to harm her at first; however, it’s evident that as time progresses, he enjoys having power over her and almost finds humor in her attempts to escape.
The second part of the novel was told from Miranda’s point of view through diary entries that she hides underneath her mattress. She writes about G.P. often, a man she met and who ended up having a huge impact on her thoughts and ideals. To Miranda, G.P. was everything she wanted to be and his opinions and thoughts became a set of ‘rules’ for her. At first I had a hard time determining the relevancy of these recollections, but it essentially just became another disturbing piece of the story to see how influential G.P. and his ‘rules’ really were to Miranda.
’He’s made me believe them; it’s the thought of him that makes me feel guilty when I break the rules.’
It was almost expected, however still just as shocking when it becomes glaringly obvious that Miranda slowly begins to take pity on her captor. She starts feeling bad for the harsh things she says to him and she also unconsciously prevents herself from doing him excessive harm during an escape attempt as she feels that if she does she’s descending to his level…It was as if she had simply accepted her situation, and that was the most heartbreaking part.
’And yes, he had more dignity than I did then and I felt small, mean. Always sneering at him, jabbing him, hating him and showing it. It was funny, we sat in silence facing each other and I had a feeling I’ve had once or twice before, of the most peculiar closeness to him—not love or attraction or sympathy in any way. But linked destiny. Like being shipwrecked on an island—a raft—together. In every way not wanting to be together. But together.’
The third and fourth parts of the novel were the most disturbing parts of the entire book. Suffice it to say, it gave me goosebumps. It was not the ending I had anticipated, but I still felt that the author was successful in creating the everlasting effect I believe he intended. Obviously, you understand the severity of Ferdinand’s actions; however, not until the end do you fully understand just how abnormal he really is. This was certainly not a happy book, but one that I’m glad to have read and one that I will likely not forget.
October 10, 2019
3.5 stars!
Thought by some to be the first psychological thriller, this book left me slightly wanting.
The Collector is broken into three parts. The first part is from Clegg's point of view. Clegg is a man obsessed with a young woman and decides to "collect" her, much as he collects butterflies. The second part is from the woman's point of view, once she's been "collected". This was the part that I found unsatisfying. There were some observations in this section about class, money and society which probably were more pertinent in the 60's, (which is when this book was written), than they are now. I found this portion slowed down the pacing considerably. The third part goes back to Clegg's point of view.
Clegg is where this book lives. The peeks inside his mind, while presented as normal thoughts on his part, are truly chilling to us readers who are sane. I shivered to read some of the things he was thinking. These psychological tics and the detached way in which they were presented were what made this book great. (You can see how I'm torn here between being unsatisfied, while at the same time finding some portions of The Collector to be outstanding.)
To today's jaded horror readers? This might not be the book for you. But to fans of stories like Silence of the Lambs, or even Red Dragon, I think this book will appeal, even though some of the themes are a bit outdated. It's to them that I recommend The Collector.
Thought by some to be the first psychological thriller, this book left me slightly wanting.
The Collector is broken into three parts. The first part is from Clegg's point of view. Clegg is a man obsessed with a young woman and decides to "collect" her, much as he collects butterflies. The second part is from the woman's point of view, once she's been "collected". This was the part that I found unsatisfying. There were some observations in this section about class, money and society which probably were more pertinent in the 60's, (which is when this book was written), than they are now. I found this portion slowed down the pacing considerably. The third part goes back to Clegg's point of view.
Clegg is where this book lives. The peeks inside his mind, while presented as normal thoughts on his part, are truly chilling to us readers who are sane. I shivered to read some of the things he was thinking. These psychological tics and the detached way in which they were presented were what made this book great. (You can see how I'm torn here between being unsatisfied, while at the same time finding some portions of The Collector to be outstanding.)
To today's jaded horror readers? This might not be the book for you. But to fans of stories like Silence of the Lambs, or even Red Dragon, I think this book will appeal, even though some of the themes are a bit outdated. It's to them that I recommend The Collector.
May 30, 2017
One of the first dark psychological thrillers--at least in modern times (though depending on how you categorize them, James or Poe or even some of the ancient Greeks might usefully be described this way, too). A tale of obsession and art and butterflies--need I say more? Wonderful for those who take their fiction black. What's especially interesting here is the sheer banality of Frederick's evil. He kidnaps Miranda, then doesn't really know what to do or how to relate to her as an actual person instead of as an object.
July 10, 2019
"Oh", said a friend, taking this novel off my shelf. "This sounds like a boring topic for a story!"
She thought it was a story about collecting butterflies, as that is what the title and cover suggest. And I answered:
"It is not about that at all, and it is one of the most suspenseful and scary novels I ever read!"
But then I thought that it actually is about collecting butterflies after all. One just rarely thinks of the fact that you kill them and pierce them with a needle to be able to look at their beautiful wings at your leisure instead of chasing after them flying free.
So the cover and title say it all, just not straightforward.
I guess this book made me a strong supporter of butterflies' right to fly ...
She thought it was a story about collecting butterflies, as that is what the title and cover suggest. And I answered:
"It is not about that at all, and it is one of the most suspenseful and scary novels I ever read!"
But then I thought that it actually is about collecting butterflies after all. One just rarely thinks of the fact that you kill them and pierce them with a needle to be able to look at their beautiful wings at your leisure instead of chasing after them flying free.
So the cover and title say it all, just not straightforward.
I guess this book made me a strong supporter of butterflies' right to fly ...
December 19, 2018
That was quite an interesting piece of fiction. A collector of butterflies is obsessed with a girl and finally kidnaps her when he comes to a fortune. She desperately tries to escape her remote prison and the relationsship between those completely different characters is shown in an impressive way. There is a kind of narration by the male character and one of the female character, the victim, in form of a diary. I won't spoil the ending but this read was quite captivating. They characters in his novel come from different walks of life and the sub-plot is exactly about society and Caliban like characters. Many allusions to art and literature delight the well read reader. I've never read any novel like this before. Clearly recommended!
October 25, 2024
This was the third - and last - of the moody Fowles follies that I struggled with.
I thereby lost what little self-possession still remained, fractured, within me by moditen. What's the point?
That's just it. There is none, according to Fowles.
Fowles paints a drawn out boondoggle, like the neuroleptics with which I once again found myself saddled.
A boondoggle is something pointless, and that's the dumb point of Fowles' turgid psychology. Pointlessness is the 'liberating' pointless point of postmodernism.
Get it? Neither do I.
But Fowles disregards God - our Origin in the "superfetation" of Being that produced us Leibnizian monads. If each monad confused itself in circularity like Fowles we'd be lost as a race.
But maybe we are at that.
Miranda is not the dreamboat Frederic believes she is in this book. She becomes a broken idol… Dreams never are perfect, so ditch your dreams, Fowles seems to say.
Dreams are just boondoggle.
So Fowles chooses a continuous circular Nuit Blanche in which to curl up and die.
***
Fowles' folks are all neurotics.
Neurosis means a pointless grappling with the real. By definition neurosis is circular. Hence therapy is circular, though for its breakthroughs it enlarges what is erroneously seen as irrelevant.
But Fowles rejects all panaceas in advance.
As for myself, I still lived the Aristotelian point of view in 1970, when I read this. And do now. Why trash your solid world in advance?
Good is good, bad, bad. That view brought me into a collision course with fallen reality again in the fall of '74.
Fallen 'woke' modern reality is non-Aristotelian.
For fallen reality, the salvation of God's goodness is pointless, for the new Woke order is open to good and evil in equal proportion:
Reality is pointless beyond “my” individual rights, which are always threatened by Aristotelian absolutism.
But the outside reality Fowles inhabits is Woke and fluidly, cynically relative.
To live and breathe is to inhale its putrescence.
***
Yet, inversely, within my inner world is peace.
How can that be, given the tensions outside myself?
Because STILL, guys, my Inner Reality is Christ - the crucified Light of my weary World;
Who brings peace into my totally fractured soul -
And could maybe even have mended John Fowles.
If he'd even listened!
I thereby lost what little self-possession still remained, fractured, within me by moditen. What's the point?
That's just it. There is none, according to Fowles.
Fowles paints a drawn out boondoggle, like the neuroleptics with which I once again found myself saddled.
A boondoggle is something pointless, and that's the dumb point of Fowles' turgid psychology. Pointlessness is the 'liberating' pointless point of postmodernism.
Get it? Neither do I.
But Fowles disregards God - our Origin in the "superfetation" of Being that produced us Leibnizian monads. If each monad confused itself in circularity like Fowles we'd be lost as a race.
But maybe we are at that.
Miranda is not the dreamboat Frederic believes she is in this book. She becomes a broken idol… Dreams never are perfect, so ditch your dreams, Fowles seems to say.
Dreams are just boondoggle.
So Fowles chooses a continuous circular Nuit Blanche in which to curl up and die.
***
Fowles' folks are all neurotics.
Neurosis means a pointless grappling with the real. By definition neurosis is circular. Hence therapy is circular, though for its breakthroughs it enlarges what is erroneously seen as irrelevant.
But Fowles rejects all panaceas in advance.
As for myself, I still lived the Aristotelian point of view in 1970, when I read this. And do now. Why trash your solid world in advance?
Good is good, bad, bad. That view brought me into a collision course with fallen reality again in the fall of '74.
Fallen 'woke' modern reality is non-Aristotelian.
For fallen reality, the salvation of God's goodness is pointless, for the new Woke order is open to good and evil in equal proportion:
Reality is pointless beyond “my” individual rights, which are always threatened by Aristotelian absolutism.
But the outside reality Fowles inhabits is Woke and fluidly, cynically relative.
To live and breathe is to inhale its putrescence.
***
Yet, inversely, within my inner world is peace.
How can that be, given the tensions outside myself?
Because STILL, guys, my Inner Reality is Christ - the crucified Light of my weary World;
Who brings peace into my totally fractured soul -
And could maybe even have mended John Fowles.
If he'd even listened!
March 13, 2023
3. 5 Stars.
I am beginning to really appreciate older novels and The Collector by John Fowles was a recommendation that just doesn’t disappoint. Dark and disturbing, you really do get inside the head of the captive and the captivator.
Frederick Clegg is a strange and withdrawn loner. Isolated from society, he spends his time trapping butterflies and studying them and eventually watching them die. This is his passion in life and the rarer the breed the more fascinated he becomes. When he comes into money his passion for collecting butterflies turns a much more disturbing passion and he stalks and kidnaps a young woman.
Beautifully written and told from the point of view of both Miranda and Frederick you really do get inside the heads of the characters as you watch events unfold. While this was written in the 1960s it’s extremely well plotted and I don’t think I really appreciated the book until a few days after I finished it. While it’s a dark and disturbing read it never becomes graphic. The story does ramble in places and I did become a little bored by Miranda’s friends and their love lives.
Another thriller from the past that is well worth reading in the future.
I am beginning to really appreciate older novels and The Collector by John Fowles was a recommendation that just doesn’t disappoint. Dark and disturbing, you really do get inside the head of the captive and the captivator.
Frederick Clegg is a strange and withdrawn loner. Isolated from society, he spends his time trapping butterflies and studying them and eventually watching them die. This is his passion in life and the rarer the breed the more fascinated he becomes. When he comes into money his passion for collecting butterflies turns a much more disturbing passion and he stalks and kidnaps a young woman.
Beautifully written and told from the point of view of both Miranda and Frederick you really do get inside the heads of the characters as you watch events unfold. While this was written in the 1960s it’s extremely well plotted and I don’t think I really appreciated the book until a few days after I finished it. While it’s a dark and disturbing read it never becomes graphic. The story does ramble in places and I did become a little bored by Miranda’s friends and their love lives.
Another thriller from the past that is well worth reading in the future.
July 29, 2021
▪︎درباره کتاب:
کلکسیونر داستان مرد تنهایی که کارمند شهرداریه و کلکسیون پروانه داره.
تنها دلخوشی این مرد دختریه که هر روز از اتاق کارش اون رو میبینه و عاشقش میشه و تو خیالاتش باهاشه به امید روزی که به دختر دست پیدا کنه.
اما اشتباه نکنید!
این کتاب یه داستان عاشقانه نیست،
بلکه یکی از کریپیترین تریلرهای روانشناختیه.
▪︎چیزی که تجربه کردم:
این کتاب یه تریلر جذابه که توش دیوانگی موج میزنه.
من عاشق داستانهاییم که فضای تیرهای داره و شخصیت اصلی سلامت روانی نداره :))
اتفاقا کلکسیونر هم داستانِ یه مرد مجنون اما بسیاااار مودب و مقرراتیه که تو خیالش با عشقش زندگی میکنه و بعد از برنده شدن در شرطبندی، اونقدر پول داره که تصمیم میگیره شغلش رو رها کنه و زمانش رو وقف ساختن خونه آرزوهاش کنه، اون تمام تلاشش رو میکنه تا همه چیز مثل خیالاتش باشه،
و این تلاش در ابتدا شاید جالب به نظر بیاد اما ترسناک میشه،
چون این بازی و خیالات کمکم رنگ و بوی واقعیت میگیره...
تا جایی که تصمیم میگیره دختر رو مهمان خانهش کنه، خانهای که برای میراندای عزیز حاضر شده.
دیوانگی توی کتاب مشهوده، تقلایی که دختر میکنه قابل لمسه. نکته جالب اینهکه مرد داستان بهنحوی ناتوانی جنسی داره.
یعنی مسائل جنسی اصلا مطرح نیست، اون هم دیوانهس هم عاشقه واسه همین میگن داستان کریپیه.
از این دید جنسی به قضیه نگاه کنیم، رابطه فردیناند و میراندا یهجورایی واسم یاداور فیلم
Leon the professional
بود، البته که خیلی تفاوتم داشتن.
(نمیدونم اصلا، اگه خوندید کتابو لطفا تو کامنت بگید موافقید یا نه)
از اونجایی که نمیخوام اسپویل کنم یکم ممکنه ریویو مبهم به نظر بیاد ولی بپذیرید از من :))
ولی این شاید یکم اسپویله، نخونید:
به نظرم اینکه اسم کتاب "کلکسیونر" شده، فقط بهخاطر این نیست که طرف پروانه جمع میکرده.
با توجه به آخر کتاب، شاید بشه گفت قاتلهای سریالی یا دزدهای روانی هم یه جورایی کلکسیونرن :))
شایدم دارم خیلی پیچیدهش میکنم!
▪︎ترجمه و نحوه نگارش:
سیر داستان رو دوست داشتم،
شروعش یکم کُند بود اما تقریبا به صفحه ۵۰ که رسیدم دیگه سخت میشد کنار بذارمش و تقریبا یکنفس خوندم تا رسیدم به بخش دوم.
کتاب چهار بخش و دو راوی داره:
بخش اول: شخصیت اصلی مرد داستان
بخش دوم: شخصیت اصلی زن داستان
در واقع بخش اول و دوم تمام حوادث یکیه اما زاویههای دید متفاوته و همین باعث شد حوصلهم نشه کامل بخش دو رو بخونم و اعتراف میکنم یه جاهایی از روش پریدم.
برای همین هم سه ستاره دادم چون احساس میکردم اون وسط ۱۵۰ صفحه اضافهس.
درسته روایت داستان از دید قربانی میتونه جالب باشه و حتی باعث شه کتاب جذابتر به نظر بیاد اما برای من خستهکننده بود.
بخش سوم و چهارم هم ادامه داستان بخش اول از زاویه دید شخصیت مَرده.
و پایانش: خیلی دوستداشتنی بود!
دقیقا از همون پایانهای کریپی و دلخواهِ من ♡♡♡♡
ترجمه خوب بود ولی یه جاهاییش یه حالی بود،
نمیدونم به خاطر نحوه نگارش کتابه یا ویراستاریش خوب نبود.
▪︎ چیزی که یاد گرفتم:
نحوه استفاده از کلروفورم برای بیهوش کردن اف��اد.
▪︎ دیگه چی:
این کتاب رو بعد از نجواگر خوندم،
اونجا هم یه قاتل روانی بود که بچهها رو میدزدید البته نه به قصد تجاوز، اینجا هم یه روانی دختر میدزده.
یه چندتا کتاب دیگه این مدلی بخونم احساس میکنم دچار سندروم استکهلم میشم. :|||||
بعد تو هر دو هم پروانه داریم :))
▪︎به کیا پیشنهاد میکنم:
اگه دوست دارید یک کتاب روانشناختی تر و تمیز بخونید و البته آدم باحوصلهای هستید (به خاطر بخش دومش) حتما این کتابو بخونید.
چون تاکید میکنم ایده عالیه!
▪︎سخن آخر از زبان میراندای کتاب:
میدانم برایش چه هستم. پروانهای که همیشه دوست داشته به دام بیندازد. یادم است اولینباری که جی.پی. را دیدم گفت کلکسیونرها بدترین حیواناتاند.
البته کلکسیونرهای آثار هنری را میگفت. راستش منظورش را درست نفهمیدم، فکر کردم فقط میخواهد کارولین را شوکه کند، و مرا. ولی البته حق با اوست.
کلکسیونرها ضد زندگیاند، ضد هنر، ضد همهچیز.
کلکسیونر داستان مرد تنهایی که کارمند شهرداریه و کلکسیون پروانه داره.
تنها دلخوشی این مرد دختریه که هر روز از اتاق کارش اون رو میبینه و عاشقش میشه و تو خیالاتش باهاشه به امید روزی که به دختر دست پیدا کنه.
اما اشتباه نکنید!
این کتاب یه داستان عاشقانه نیست،
بلکه یکی از کریپیترین تریلرهای روانشناختیه.
▪︎چیزی که تجربه کردم:
این کتاب یه تریلر جذابه که توش دیوانگی موج میزنه.
من عاشق داستانهاییم که فضای تیرهای داره و شخصیت اصلی سلامت روانی نداره :))
اتفاقا کلکسیونر هم داستانِ یه مرد مجنون اما بسیاااار مودب و مقرراتیه که تو خیالش با عشقش زندگی میکنه و بعد از برنده شدن در شرطبندی، اونقدر پول داره که تصمیم میگیره شغلش رو رها کنه و زمانش رو وقف ساختن خونه آرزوهاش کنه، اون تمام تلاشش رو میکنه تا همه چیز مثل خیالاتش باشه،
و این تلاش در ابتدا شاید جالب به نظر بیاد اما ترسناک میشه،
چون این بازی و خیالات کمکم رنگ و بوی واقعیت میگیره...
تا جایی که تصمیم میگیره دختر رو مهمان خانهش کنه، خانهای که برای میراندای عزیز حاضر شده.
دیوانگی توی کتاب مشهوده، تقلایی که دختر میکنه قابل لمسه. نکته جالب اینهکه مرد داستان بهنحوی ناتوانی جنسی داره.
یعنی مسائل جنسی اصلا مطرح نیست، اون هم دیوانهس هم عاشقه واسه همین میگن داستان کریپیه.
از این دید جنسی به قضیه نگاه کنیم، رابطه فردیناند و میراندا یهجورایی واسم یاداور فیلم
Leon the professional
بود، البته که خیلی تفاوتم داشتن.
(نمیدونم اصلا، اگه خوندید کتابو لطفا تو کامنت بگید موافقید یا نه)
از اونجایی که نمیخوام اسپویل کنم یکم ممکنه ریویو مبهم به نظر بیاد ولی بپذیرید از من :))
ولی این شاید یکم اسپویله، نخونید:
به نظرم اینکه اسم کتاب "کلکسیونر" شده، فقط بهخاطر این نیست که طرف پروانه جمع میکرده.
با توجه به آخر کتاب، شاید بشه گفت قاتلهای سریالی یا دزدهای روانی هم یه جورایی کلکسیونرن :))
شایدم دارم خیلی پیچیدهش میکنم!
▪︎ترجمه و نحوه نگارش:
سیر داستان رو دوست داشتم،
شروعش یکم کُند بود اما تقریبا به صفحه ۵۰ که رسیدم دیگه سخت میشد کنار بذارمش و تقریبا یکنفس خوندم تا رسیدم به بخش دوم.
کتاب چهار بخش و دو راوی داره:
بخش اول: شخصیت اصلی مرد داستان
بخش دوم: شخصیت اصلی زن داستان
در واقع بخش اول و دوم تمام حوادث یکیه اما زاویههای دید متفاوته و همین باعث شد حوصلهم نشه کامل بخش دو رو بخونم و اعتراف میکنم یه جاهایی از روش پریدم.
برای همین هم سه ستاره دادم چون احساس میکردم اون وسط ۱۵۰ صفحه اضافهس.
درسته روایت داستان از دید قربانی میتونه جالب باشه و حتی باعث شه کتاب جذابتر به نظر بیاد اما برای من خستهکننده بود.
بخش سوم و چهارم هم ادامه داستان بخش اول از زاویه دید شخصیت مَرده.
و پایانش: خیلی دوستداشتنی بود!
دقیقا از همون پایانهای کریپی و دلخواهِ من ♡♡♡♡
ترجمه خوب بود ولی یه جاهاییش یه حالی بود،
نمیدونم به خاطر نحوه نگارش کتابه یا ویراستاریش خوب نبود.
▪︎ چیزی که یاد گرفتم:
نحوه استفاده از کلروفورم برای بیهوش کردن اف��اد.
▪︎ دیگه چی:
این کتاب رو بعد از نجواگر خوندم،
اونجا هم یه قاتل روانی بود که بچهها رو میدزدید البته نه به قصد تجاوز، اینجا هم یه روانی دختر میدزده.
یه چندتا کتاب دیگه این مدلی بخونم احساس میکنم دچار سندروم استکهلم میشم. :|||||
بعد تو هر دو هم پروانه داریم :))
▪︎به کیا پیشنهاد میکنم:
اگه دوست دارید یک کتاب روانشناختی تر و تمیز بخونید و البته آدم باحوصلهای هستید (به خاطر بخش دومش) حتما این کتابو بخونید.
چون تاکید میکنم ایده عالیه!
▪︎سخن آخر از زبان میراندای کتاب:
میدانم برایش چه هستم. پروانهای که همیشه دوست داشته به دام بیندازد. یادم است اولینباری که جی.پی. را دیدم گفت کلکسیونرها بدترین حیواناتاند.
البته کلکسیونرهای آثار هنری را میگفت. راستش منظورش را درست نفهمیدم، فکر کردم فقط میخواهد کارولین را شوکه کند، و مرا. ولی البته حق با اوست.
کلکسیونرها ضد زندگیاند، ضد هنر، ضد همهچیز.
July 5, 2010
Other reviewers have said what I would say about The Collector. It's haunting, disturbing, and impossible to forget once you've finished. While not a typical "horror" story, it is one that probably occurs more often in the real world than not, and the person(s) involved could be a distant relative, a sibling, a son or a daughter.
Allow me to state right now that it's not an easy read. As someone who derives enjoyment from books of this nature, I was determined to remain objective from the onset. I wanted Frederick to earn my disdain, just as I wanted Miranda to garner my sympathy and support.
Little did I know just how masterfully John Fowles would pen the book.
Written in four sections, you are given Frederick's POV, then Miranda's (via her diary), and finally two final portions (of which the last seems like an epilogue). The format doesn't seem to be all that special, but in truth, it is what makes The Collector so powerful -- your emotions, quite literally, are used against you.
Frederick is a gentle -- yet, due to his fears and compulsions, dangerous -- man. In the beginning, you want to understand his desire to earn Miranda's "love." It's not until things progress that you learn that Miranda isn't truly a person to him (even he doesn't recognize this) but an object to collect. Even more tragic is that as much as you dislike Miranda(I'm ashamed to confess this, but almost the entire portion written from Frederik's POV I didn't care for her) when it's her turn to speak, you are presented an entirely different picture -- of a girl with hopes, dreams, and the realization that the choices that were of such importance in her life -- namely her inability to choose to reveal her love for another man, as well as her faith in God -- are made all the more heartbreaking in light of the predicament in which she finds herself.
Of course, when you delve into the third and fourth parts, it's just devastating. I can't say much as not to spoil, but I know this book will remain with me for an EXTREMELY long time. It's disturbing in a multitude of ways, but it's the ending that drives the final nail in the coffin (no pun intended). Suffice it to say, those last few words gave me chills and even now I can't stop thinking about them.
Allow me to state right now that it's not an easy read. As someone who derives enjoyment from books of this nature, I was determined to remain objective from the onset. I wanted Frederick to earn my disdain, just as I wanted Miranda to garner my sympathy and support.
Little did I know just how masterfully John Fowles would pen the book.
Written in four sections, you are given Frederick's POV, then Miranda's (via her diary), and finally two final portions (of which the last seems like an epilogue). The format doesn't seem to be all that special, but in truth, it is what makes The Collector so powerful -- your emotions, quite literally, are used against you.
Frederick is a gentle -- yet, due to his fears and compulsions, dangerous -- man. In the beginning, you want to understand his desire to earn Miranda's "love." It's not until things progress that you learn that Miranda isn't truly a person to him (even he doesn't recognize this) but an object to collect. Even more tragic is that as much as you dislike Miranda(I'm ashamed to confess this, but almost the entire portion written from Frederik's POV I didn't care for her) when it's her turn to speak, you are presented an entirely different picture -- of a girl with hopes, dreams, and the realization that the choices that were of such importance in her life -- namely her inability to choose to reveal her love for another man, as well as her faith in God -- are made all the more heartbreaking in light of the predicament in which she finds herself.
Of course, when you delve into the third and fourth parts, it's just devastating. I can't say much as not to spoil, but I know this book will remain with me for an EXTREMELY long time. It's disturbing in a multitude of ways, but it's the ending that drives the final nail in the coffin (no pun intended). Suffice it to say, those last few words gave me chills and even now I can't stop thinking about them.
June 23, 2024
"Anyone who has been locked away like this would understand...I sit down here in the absolute silence with my reflection, in a sort of state of mystery"
This is the second novel I've read by the legendary John Fowles, and when reading the back cover, thought it was a novel that related to science, and the study of butterflies and botany because of my familiarity of having read "The French Lieutenant's Woman". Well, I was dead wrong.
This is the kind of book that is the stuff of nightmares. Miranda, an art student, is abducted by the mild mannered butterfly collector Ferdinand, and is gagged and tortured until submission.
In order to survive days of boredom and the inhuman quandary she has found herself in, she keeps a journal where she records her thoughts of escape and hatred of Ferdinand.
Meanwhile, Ferdinand lives in the delusion that Miranda, the most prized of all collections, will one day fall for him.
Reading this novel and its horrifying finale seems to be the godmother of all serial killer stories: real and imagined, eerie and grotesque not only because of their treatment of one another; but the battle of wills that takes place where Miranda is held captive.
I just found out that it was adapted into a now classic horror film directed in 1965 by the legendary William Wyler and starring Terrence Stamp and Samantha Eggar.
I want to immediately see this film to see how well it matches the horror and the suspense of dread that Mr. Fowles has written, and it is scary to know that this book has become an inspiration guide for future serial killers, and actual serial killers who have touted this book as their blueprint to murder.
This is the second novel I've read by the legendary John Fowles, and when reading the back cover, thought it was a novel that related to science, and the study of butterflies and botany because of my familiarity of having read "The French Lieutenant's Woman". Well, I was dead wrong.
This is the kind of book that is the stuff of nightmares. Miranda, an art student, is abducted by the mild mannered butterfly collector Ferdinand, and is gagged and tortured until submission.
In order to survive days of boredom and the inhuman quandary she has found herself in, she keeps a journal where she records her thoughts of escape and hatred of Ferdinand.
Meanwhile, Ferdinand lives in the delusion that Miranda, the most prized of all collections, will one day fall for him.
Reading this novel and its horrifying finale seems to be the godmother of all serial killer stories: real and imagined, eerie and grotesque not only because of their treatment of one another; but the battle of wills that takes place where Miranda is held captive.
I just found out that it was adapted into a now classic horror film directed in 1965 by the legendary William Wyler and starring Terrence Stamp and Samantha Eggar.
I want to immediately see this film to see how well it matches the horror and the suspense of dread that Mr. Fowles has written, and it is scary to know that this book has become an inspiration guide for future serial killers, and actual serial killers who have touted this book as their blueprint to murder.
April 27, 2020
Loved - so creepy!
September 24, 2024
A butterfly collector who wins an unexpected tidy sum: so far, nothing too worrying. The young man falls in love at first sight with a young student, always one of the extraordinary, and now is the time for everything to go wrong. Because this young girl, Miranda, must also fall head over heels in love with our collector. For that, he set up a particular project.
It is a novel with two voices: that of Fred, chilling, devoid of emotion, implacable, and that of Miranda, challenging to pin down, futile at times, vain then pitiful.
If Fred-Ferdinand's voice is convincing in its madness, Miranda's, I admit, left me unsatisfied. So little empathy towards either protagonist, improbabilities, remains a tale of ordinary madness, a curiosity, and a book to be discovered.
It is a novel with two voices: that of Fred, chilling, devoid of emotion, implacable, and that of Miranda, challenging to pin down, futile at times, vain then pitiful.
If Fred-Ferdinand's voice is convincing in its madness, Miranda's, I admit, left me unsatisfied. So little empathy towards either protagonist, improbabilities, remains a tale of ordinary madness, a curiosity, and a book to be discovered.
May 23, 2023
Cartea a aparut in 1963 si reprezinta romanul de debut al autorului. A fost primita cu succes atat de public cat si de critica, ceea ce i-a conferit celebritate si succes lui John Fowles. Alte opere de referinta ar fi: "Magicianul", "Iubita locotenentului francez", "Turnul de abanos" care au fost si ecranizate impreuna cu opera de fata.
Naratiunea se face la persoana intai si este atat de intima, detaliata si insinuanta incat cititorul ajunge sa-l creada pe povestitor in nebunia lui fascinanta.
Fredrick Clegg este un functionar timid si sters care lucreaza la primarie, iar in timpul liber este un impatimit colectionar de fluturi. Pasiunea lui arzatoare nu se opreste insa la fluturi ci mocneste si pentru o tanara blonda, Miranda, ce studiaza la Arte Frumoase. Fredrick pariaza regulat la pronosport si printr-un mare noroc reuseste sa castige o suma frumoasa de bani. Neavand ce sa faca cu ei el incepe sa teasa un plan diabolic in care s-o rapeasca pe Miranda si s-o adauge colectiei lui impresionante. Convins ca fata nu l-ar accepta asa cum este, sters si introvertit, chiar daca s-a imbogatit peste noapte, el spera ca tinand-o in captivitate va putea sa o faca sa-l cunoasca si sa-l iubeasca.
Fata insa se va dovedi nu numai frumoasa si distinsa ci si foarte inteligenta si va incerca sa evadeze prin toate mijloacele dar si sa il ilumineze si sa-l educe pe tanarul colectionar. Frumosul ei caracter si rafinamentul de care da dovada vor iesi la iveala din jurnalul ei din a doua parte a cartii. Tot aici vom citi si multe referiri despre arta, scris, gandire in general, dar si referiri la mari opere ale lui Shakespeare, Dickens, Bernard Shaw sau pictori cum ar fi Pollock, Henry Moore ori Goya. Ea va fi cea care il va numi pe Fredrick dupa personajul lui Shakespeare "Caliban" din "Furtuna", pentru ca il considera necioplit si nedornic de a se cultiva si inalta prin studiu. De asemenea pentru "plicticosii mici la suflet" a inventat termenul de "calibanism".
Mi-a placut foarte mult ca din jurnalul ei putem sa aflam despre un pictor mai in varsta ca ea care ii este mentor si care a invatat-o tot felul de lucruri prin felul sau original si excentric de a fi si de care s-a indragostit. Am selectat aici o declaratie de dragoste care suna cam asa: "Nu a rostit decat cele doua vorbe, dar le spusese cu atata sinceritate: "Te iubesc!" Cuvinte lipsite de orice speranta. Le spusese asa cum ar fi spus "Am cancer". Era basmul lui."
Daca stam sa ne gandim, cel mai trist lucru este ca nici nu a incercat sa o aiba fara sa recurga la rapire, forta si constrangere, cand putea atat de usor sa o intrebe direct, incercandu-si norocul, daca ii place de el.
Romanul impresioneaza foarte mult cititorul prin antiteza dintre protagonista si erou iar sfarsitul revoltator si crud il va infuria negresit pe acesta. Este incorecta si lipsita de sens atat soarta fluturilor cat si soarta frumoasei Miranda. Consider ca este un pacat capital sa prinzi cele mai frumoase exemplare in vreun insectar obscur, rapindu-le astfel lumii.
Inchei cu cateva citate relevante ce evidentiaza caracterul personajelor si din care putem invata cate ceva:
"Oricum n-as putea respecta pe nimeni - mai ales un barbat - care ar face lucruri doar ca sa-mi faca mie placere. As vrea sa le faca pentru ca are convingerea ca merita sa fie facute."
"Inocenta. Singura data cand o poti vedea este in clipa in care o femeie se dezbraca si este incapabila sa te priveasca in ochi."
"Dar dragostea vine imbracata in vesminte diferite, cu alta fata, sub o alta forma si poate ca e nevoie de timp indelungat ca s-o accepti; s-o numesti dragoste."
"Cand desenezi un obiect, il vezi cum prinde viata, iar cand il fotografiezi moare."
"Nu stiu daca voia sa vad "virtutea" mea triumfand asupra "viciului" sau sau altceva, mai subtil: uneori a pierde inseamna a castiga."
Naratiunea se face la persoana intai si este atat de intima, detaliata si insinuanta incat cititorul ajunge sa-l creada pe povestitor in nebunia lui fascinanta.
Fredrick Clegg este un functionar timid si sters care lucreaza la primarie, iar in timpul liber este un impatimit colectionar de fluturi. Pasiunea lui arzatoare nu se opreste insa la fluturi ci mocneste si pentru o tanara blonda, Miranda, ce studiaza la Arte Frumoase. Fredrick pariaza regulat la pronosport si printr-un mare noroc reuseste sa castige o suma frumoasa de bani. Neavand ce sa faca cu ei el incepe sa teasa un plan diabolic in care s-o rapeasca pe Miranda si s-o adauge colectiei lui impresionante. Convins ca fata nu l-ar accepta asa cum este, sters si introvertit, chiar daca s-a imbogatit peste noapte, el spera ca tinand-o in captivitate va putea sa o faca sa-l cunoasca si sa-l iubeasca.
Fata insa se va dovedi nu numai frumoasa si distinsa ci si foarte inteligenta si va incerca sa evadeze prin toate mijloacele dar si sa il ilumineze si sa-l educe pe tanarul colectionar. Frumosul ei caracter si rafinamentul de care da dovada vor iesi la iveala din jurnalul ei din a doua parte a cartii. Tot aici vom citi si multe referiri despre arta, scris, gandire in general, dar si referiri la mari opere ale lui Shakespeare, Dickens, Bernard Shaw sau pictori cum ar fi Pollock, Henry Moore ori Goya. Ea va fi cea care il va numi pe Fredrick dupa personajul lui Shakespeare "Caliban" din "Furtuna", pentru ca il considera necioplit si nedornic de a se cultiva si inalta prin studiu. De asemenea pentru "plicticosii mici la suflet" a inventat termenul de "calibanism".
Mi-a placut foarte mult ca din jurnalul ei putem sa aflam despre un pictor mai in varsta ca ea care ii este mentor si care a invatat-o tot felul de lucruri prin felul sau original si excentric de a fi si de care s-a indragostit. Am selectat aici o declaratie de dragoste care suna cam asa: "Nu a rostit decat cele doua vorbe, dar le spusese cu atata sinceritate: "Te iubesc!" Cuvinte lipsite de orice speranta. Le spusese asa cum ar fi spus "Am cancer". Era basmul lui."
Daca stam sa ne gandim, cel mai trist lucru este ca nici nu a incercat sa o aiba fara sa recurga la rapire, forta si constrangere, cand putea atat de usor sa o intrebe direct, incercandu-si norocul, daca ii place de el.
Romanul impresioneaza foarte mult cititorul prin antiteza dintre protagonista si erou iar sfarsitul revoltator si crud il va infuria negresit pe acesta. Este incorecta si lipsita de sens atat soarta fluturilor cat si soarta frumoasei Miranda. Consider ca este un pacat capital sa prinzi cele mai frumoase exemplare in vreun insectar obscur, rapindu-le astfel lumii.
Inchei cu cateva citate relevante ce evidentiaza caracterul personajelor si din care putem invata cate ceva:
"Oricum n-as putea respecta pe nimeni - mai ales un barbat - care ar face lucruri doar ca sa-mi faca mie placere. As vrea sa le faca pentru ca are convingerea ca merita sa fie facute."
"Inocenta. Singura data cand o poti vedea este in clipa in care o femeie se dezbraca si este incapabila sa te priveasca in ochi."
"Dar dragostea vine imbracata in vesminte diferite, cu alta fata, sub o alta forma si poate ca e nevoie de timp indelungat ca s-o accepti; s-o numesti dragoste."
"Cand desenezi un obiect, il vezi cum prinde viata, iar cand il fotografiezi moare."
"Nu stiu daca voia sa vad "virtutea" mea triumfand asupra "viciului" sau sau altceva, mai subtil: uneori a pierde inseamna a castiga."
December 12, 2022
This was a little weird and slightly uncomfortable but throughly entertaining and memorable.
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