The Collector by John Fowles

There was always the idea
she would understand.

We’re all Fred Clegg, deep down, at heart, aren’t we? If we look hard enough (or not even that hard to be honest), we’re disenfranchised (particularly in the current, openly hostile and insensitive post-truth right-wing #Liz4Leader #Ready4Rishi race-to-the-bottom no-hand-outs PORK MARKETS Brexit is going well isn’t it political environment), lonely, underappreciated and undereducated (or at least for the Tory party grandees, educated in the wrong things), looking for something to give meaning to or provide a connection in our mediocre little lives. Until now, Fred has found contentment in ‘photographs, ey, he asked him knowingly’ and in hunting and slowly suffocating butterflies for his collection, but he dreams of companionship, acceptance, and love, in so far as his crippled imagination allows. Of course, not too many of us are so disenfranchised, lonely, underappreciated, undereducated and, frankly, insane that we capture a spoilt but lovely art student and keep them in the soundproofed basement of our garishly decorated Sussex country cottage in the vain hope that they will grow to respect and, even, to love us. No-one would be that silly, surely?

Other than Fowles himself. In a 1963 entry in his journal he mentions that the number one inspiration for writing this now classic English language thriller is his recurring sexual fantasy about locking up women in his basement.

Creepy as fuck.

No matter the inspiration, Fowles’ debut novel is dark, claustrophobic, and superb. In three-ish parts, with two first person narratives, we first meet Fred, who relates his prudish, uninspiring upbringing, his isolation, and his dark desires – not for the nasty stuff you understand, but for the respect which is his due but which is denied him because of the class system. He’s a victim in his eyes and has been forced to act accordingly. We also learn he’s won the pools*, has packed his aunt and cousin off to Australia, and has bought a secluded property in a rural area far enough away from the world that he can turn it into a luxury prison for Miranda, the art student he has been stalking carefully, a prison where he can earn her trust and respect and, maybe her love. Of course that doesn’t really happen.

Next is Miranda, who we learn about through her prison diary. She writes about her circumstances and experience of Fred, her despair, fear, but also contempt and pity for her captor, and she frequently revisits her life before her capture. She runs the gamut of emotions up to but perhaps not quite including acceptance of her situation, but still manages to contrive a few occasions to attempt escape. However, her health slowly deteriorates, like a butterfly in a jar, until the end is inevitable. These rambling diary entries provide the counterpoint to the rapidly dwindling hope she can escape, and the growing claustrophobia of her existence. If I had to pick one thing that I enjoyed least about this novel, her diaries would be the one thing, as through her reminiscences we’re taken away from the main focus of the novel.

Lastly, we’re back with Fred, who suffers from the realisation that Miranda will never love him, that she is too spoiled and vain, too posh, to understand him. He’s made a terrible mistake, and here is Fred’s humanity laid bare, the one thing that lets the reader find some sympathy for him and which permits the suspension of moral outrage required to read (and, in a perverse way, enjoy) through to the end; that is, until he vows to do better next time.

Chilling, twisted but ultimately thrilling and suspenseful, Fowles’ debut is a justifiable classic.

 

*”The Pools” Pre-mobile app in-match betting, this was the way people, who didn’t bet, bet on football; by filling in a paper ‘coupon’. My father used to do the pools but he would select a random selection according to the arcane rules and we’d check them together to see how much we’d won. To my knowledge, we won approximately zero pounds in total.

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