" I gorged myself on memories."

" Innocence. The one time you see it is when a woman takes her clothes off and cannot look you in the eyes."

"...if you get to the heart of things you find sadness for ever and ever, everywhere; but a beautiful silver sadness, like a Christ face. Accepting the sadness. Knowing that to pretend it was all gay was treachery. Treachery to everyone sad at that moment, everyone ever sad, treachery to such music, such truth."

"...more and more suffering for more and more. And more and more in vain. It's as if the lights have fused. I'm here in the black truth. God is impotent. He can't love us. He hates us because he can't love us. All the meanness and the selfishness and the lies. People won't admit it, they're too busy grabbing to see that the lights have fused. They can't see the darkness and the spiderface beyond and the great web of it all. That there's always this if you scratch at the surface of happiness and good ness. The black and the black and the black.
I've only never felt like this before. I never imagined it possible. More than hatred, more than despair. You can't hate what you cannot touch, I can't even feel what most people think of as despair. It's beyond despair. It's as if I can't feel any more. I see, but I can't feel. Oh God if there is a God. I hate beyond hate."

- The Collector; John Fowles

I finished The Collector yesterday, but was too low to write. Now I'm back on my creaky chair (it's getting a bit frightening), with my smelly blue blanket. This, by the way, is a blanket that's so worn, it's not warming anymore. It gives me that snug feeling I need when alone. The smell, on the other hand, keeps it safe from possible theft.

Back to the book. Eerily delightful, but I find the ending a little dissappointing. Then again, it's the idealistic me. Thinking back, the book ends as it's supposed to - wouldn't work otherwise. The motif is the action of collecting - M needs to be a part of the exhibition. She has to die. Nobody would agree wilingly. I love the way it's written. I love the way Miranda and Caliban are brought in. I always think attempts to do such things put you at a risk of sounding redundant.
The philosophy of the book reminds me of The Fountainhead. Although, I suppose Rand's idea of the 'Few' is so extreme it becomes an independent philosophy.
Also, think about the deadness of Glegg and the life of Miranda - who dies.

I recognise the trickiness of the book. Clever, clever Fowles.