John Fowles - Interview

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John Fowles - Interview John Fowles, author of The Collector, The Magus and Daniel Martin, can barely walk; his speech is slurred and his gaze is rheumy. Fowles has not written a novel (since A Maggot ) for 18 years and his newly published diaries are almost certain to be his last work. However, as he says: 'I do think a lot, though.' The intellect that has dazzled readers since the publication of The Collector 40 years ago is still razor-sharp, if haphazard. His recall is patchy, and he is forever wafting a questioning hand at Sarah, his second wife: 'She is my memory now.' He sporadically forgets the titles of his books, referring to The Magus as 'that Greek book I wrote a long time ago' and Daniel Martin as 'me in America'. This is probably the last interview John Fowles will do. In 1988, two years before Elizabeth, his wife of 33 years, died of cancer, he had a stroke, followed by heart surgery. Today, he is nursed at his rambling seaside refuge in Lyme Regis by Sarah, 20 years his junior , an old friend of Elizabeth's. They make a touching couple. He is her 'sick pig'; Fowles calls her Rats: 'She of the Ravishing Auburn Tresses.' Fowles is constantly tripping off at bizarre tangents, zooming from his father's 'ghastly' attempt at a novel to his love of France, a recurrent theme: 'I think in French, you know.' He looks across to his wife, sitting quietly in the corner. 'Can I say that?' She shrugs indulgently: 'You do what you fucking like.' Sheepish, he grins. This is, I realise, by far the best way of dealing with Fowles, as a supremely gifted but slightly naughty schoolboy. Sarah, who handles him in the manner of some public school matron, says wearily: 'I do adore him, but it is very difficult. He is demanding beyond belief.' Fowles is hard work. A born recluse, he despises parties and pomp, is uneasy around other writers - he dislikes 'vain'
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