The Collector

If you want to read a suspenseful page turner that will terrify you until the last page,look no further. J. Fowles is a superb writer and proves he can write a timeless work of art.

Much time has passed since John Fowles, now a major international author, first wrote and published "The Collector", in 1963. In many ways, it was the prequel to a myriad of psychological thrillers (by other writers) involving obsession. Fowles, an enormous success based on this, his first novel, has gone on to a distinguished career and writing that is far more complex and layered than what we encounter here. That said, reading "The Collector", one cannot help but be impressed at how Fowles sets the story, and how the point of view of the reader is rather voyeuristic -- we see the entire plot by reading the journals of the two protagonists, peering into a series of events they share by contrasting point of view. Fowles leads us into the story through the eyes of Ferdinand Clegg, a clerk who wins a sum of money in "the pools". He sends his odd relatives off on a global jaunt, and uses the bulk of the money to buy a lonely cottage with a cellar that he turns into a secure prison of sorts. The object of his attention is a young and vibrant art student named Miranda. All his life Clegg (or Caliban, as Miranda dubs him) has collected butterflies. He now means to use his skills as a hunter, curator and collector, to possess Miranda, whom he has been stalking for several months. In the plotting that is Clegg's, Fowles is remarkably detached from the world, helping his readers see it from the slightly oppressed viewpoint of the British middle class; only Clegg has thoughts and needs suppressed for many years, that are frightening in their focused simplicity. Of the capture of Miranda, Clegg relates: "It finally ten days later happened as it sometimes does with butterflies. I mean you go to a place where you know you may see something rare and you don't, but the next time not looking for it you see it on a flower right in front of you, handed to you on a plate, as they say." In reading Clegg's story, the reader feels touched, albeit briefly, by his madness, which is wrapped in the coat of a lonely young man. The second part of the book allows the reader to come to know Miranda, through her secret journal. As vibrant as Clegg is dull, Miranda has been very caught up in the life of an artist, including her college dabbling with a teacher-type paramour, known to the reader as "G.P.". Much of what is absorbing in Miranda's world ceases with her capture. Her portion of the tale is a struggle with the alternating fear and loathing of Caliban, and the instinctive need to understand him, so that she might use that understanding to seek her freedom. Her faith in God ebbing, her despair and disdain for her captor growing, Miranda's shattered by her captivity. She says of him: "He's not human; he's an empty space disguised as a human." Inevitably, at the close of the captivity, the end of the story is told by Caliban, detached from the role he plays in how Miranda's story ends. Freshly shocked from this, the reader begins Chapter 4 unsettle

The Collector is a novel that really does work on more than one level. On the surface, it's a harrowing thriller about a demented butterfly collector who kidnaps and imprisons a young art student in the basement of his country home. It also works as an allegory about good and evil, a study of class resentment in Britain, and a meditation on the nature of obsession, love, and identity. It's also a gripping dual character study.The book begins with the collector's chillingly matter-of-fact account of how he came to add the lovely and brilliant Miranda Grey to his quarry. Frederic Clegg is not initially a bad man, just a lonely one. His ultimate evil comes from his indifference to the lives of others. Once you finish this section and start reading Miranda's journal, the central part of the book, you instantly realize the horror and absurdity of the situation. The collector is in love with an image, not a human being. His attempts to make his prisoner fall in love with him are as futile as her attempts to escape. This section could almost be another novel in itself. Despite her plight, Miranda comes to the realization that her jailer is even more horribly trapped than she. The peculiar sympathy she comes to feel for Clegg is one of the strangest and saddest elements of the story. If anything, it makes you loathe him all the more.The darkness of Fowles' vision of man's true nature is reminiscent of Golding's in Lord of the Flies. It may be the most depressing novel I've ever read; I really did feel devastated by the conclusion. Despite this, I have to recommend it. On finishing the book, I thought of a line from a Bob Dylan song: "Sometimes I think this world is one big prison yard/Some of us are prisoners, some of us are guards."

With the exception of Nabokov's Lolita, this is the best book I have ever read. From the very moment I laid my hands on it I could not put it down and I have re-read it many times since. The premise is as such: a clerk (Frederick Clegg) becomes obsessed with a pretty art student (Miranda Grey) and holds her captive in his basement. Half of the story is told from Clegg's point of view in a recollective style, whilst the rest (the middle section) is relayed through Miranda's diary. The obvious differences in their views on life and the impossibility of them ever reaching a common ground is what grips you. Brilliant characterization and a brilliant study of human behaviour. Many people have suggested that The Magus was Fowle's best work, but The Collector puts it in the shade. Compelling.

I read this book in Russia for the first time and since then it has been my #1 reccomendation for anyone who claims they are impervious to the evils of human nature. This book grips you from the first sentence as you spiral down into the depths of Caliban's psychotic obsessions, the well-planned out kidnapping, and ultimately sets you down in a lonely basement. I was able to identify with both personas, and the ambivalence which pervaded my heart during the reading told me something magically disturbing was happening. John Fowles is a master, and there is an element of genious in this work. I have never been effected so profoundly by a book in all my life; there were times I had to actually lift my eyes from the pages and stare at a wall in tantalizing amazement at how this book was making me feel. If this was the only work Fowles ever wrote, his immortality would still be assured. The inevitability of what happens in the end in no way diminishes the bitter, heart-twisting tears when you realise she "is gone" forever. A very, very painful moment...probably the most painful page to read in all of 20th century western literature. This is by far the most profoundly intense book I have ever read, and it will occupy a special place in my heart for as long as I live.