If you want to be true to life, start lying about it John Fowles More Quotes by John Fowles More Quotes From John Fowles One degrades oneself sometimes in the effort not to be lonely. John Fowles effortlonelysometimes Stained glass, engraved glass, frosted glass; give me plain glass. John Fowles stained-glassglassesgiving The more abhorrent a news item the more comforting it was to be the recipient, since the fact that it had happened elsewhere proved that it had not happened here, was not happening here, and would therefore never happen here. John Fowles abhorrentnewscomforting Duty largely consists of pretending that the trivial is critical. John Fowles cornypretendingduty Our accepting what we are must always inhibit our being what we ought to be. John Fowles oughtacceptinglimits These last few days I've felt Godless. I've felt cleaner, less muddled, less blind. I still believe in a God. But he's so remote, so cold, so mathematical. I see that we have to live as if there is no God. Prayer and worship and singing hymns-all silly and useless. John Fowles religiousprayergod No amount of reading and intelligent deduction could supplant the direct experience. John Fowles experienceintelligentreading The best wines take the longest to mature. John Fowles best-winematurewine It's no good. I've been trying to sleep for the last half-hour, and I can't. Writing here is a sort of drug. It's the only thing I look forward to. This afternoon I read what I wrote... And it seemed vivid. I know it seems vivid because my imagination fills in all the bits another person wouldn't understand. I mean, it's vanity. But it seems a sort of magic... And I just can't live in this present. I would go mad if I did John Fowles sleepwritingmean 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. John Fowles hatetryingbeautiful It's despair at the lack of feeling, of love, of reason in the world. It's despair that anyone can even contemplate the idea of dropping a bomb or ordering that it should be dropped. It's despair that so few of us care. It's despair that there's so much brutality and callousness in the world. It's despair that perfectly normal young men can be made vicious and evil because they've won a lot of money. And then do what you've done to me. John Fowles perfectly-normalmenlife The dead live." "How do they live?" "By love. John Fowles live-by The bowed head, the buried face. She is silent, she will never speak, never forgive, never reach a hand, never leave this frozen present tense. All waits, suspended. Suspended the autumn trees, the autumn sky, anonymous people. A blackbird, poor fool, sings out of season from the willows by the lake. A flight of pigeons over the houses; fragments of freedom, hazard, an anagram made flesh. And somewhere the stinging smell of burning leaves. John Fowles autumnsmelllakes There is no plan. All is hazard. And the only thing that will preserve us is ourselves. John Fowles hazardspreservesplans They're beautiful. But sad.' Everything's sad if you make it so, I said. John Fowles ifssaidbeautiful The world began in hazard and will end in it. John Fowles hazardsendsworld Wolves don't hunt singly, but always in pairs. The lone wolf was a myth. John Fowles lone-wolfmythpairs I knew I would always want to go on living with myself, however hollow I became, however diseased. John Fowles diseasedgoes-onwant If you forget everything else about me, please remember this. I walked down that street and I never looked back and I love you. I love you. I love you so much that I shall hate you for ever for today. John Fowles forget-everythinghatelove-you I was too green to know that all cynicism masks a failure to cope - an impotence, in short; and that to despise all effort is the greatest effort of all. John Fowles effortgreencynicism
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