01.08.09
Fowles, Fowles
The beauty of John Fowles lies not in his plots, nor in his romantic language, it is found in the complex enigma of his ideas – where the depiction of everything from the obvious to the tiniest or most ambiguous detail is pregnant with philosophical erudition, may it be a main character, glass, a dead weasel, burning books, a thought, or a gesture.
He was nominated for the Nobel in 1999 but Günter Grass inherited the prize that year. Fowles is not for everyone as much as other authors are, and regrettably, in my little niche of the world, he is underrated – or worse, unread. In fact I personally know of only two people who esteem Fowles, and both fortunately and unfortunately, knew of him through me. Fowles’ work is espresso, and while it has its fair share of popularity, it remains an acquired taste. Fowlesian novels ooze with that rich and mysterious quality with lingering throes of bitterness, topped with the perfect tiger-striped crema of wonder and imagination, and except for his religious orientations, I’m addicted to everything Fowles.
Franz, one of the two people mentioned above, was darling enough to furnish my hungry shelf with The Ebony Tower during his trip here several days ago. The Ebony Tower is a series of five short novels set in different time frames but with recurring medieval themes: The Ebony Tower, Eliduc, Poor Koko, The Enigma, and The Cloud. Fowles originally called this medley, Variations. The whole book is as mystical as a Pisanello painting or a Celtic myth, but an “art book” is what I’d dub this treasure.
If I could, I’d retype all of his books, but that does not even seem plausible. So I’ll settle with some of the lines I’ve highlighted in the hope that they will spread ripples of Fowles appreciation.
¤ ¤ ¤
The Ebony Tower
No amount of reading and intelligent deduction could supplant the direct experience.
How did one get silence into paint?
The moth battered minutely again at the lampshade. There were others loosely constellated on the glass outside the window…pale fawn specks of delicate, foolish organism yearning for the impossible. The cruelty of glass: as transparent as air, as divisive as steel.
The art predicted a sensitive and complex man; and almost everything outward in him denied it. *Casts a knowing look at Mika*
“You really a painter? Or just a gutless bloody word-twister?”
“That’s all. Just paint. That’s my advice.Leave the clever talk to the poor sods who can’t.”
How impatient it was of barriers and obstacles, how it melted truth and desire of all their conventional coats; one desired truth, one truthed desire…
Perhaps it was happening in the other arts – in writing, music. David did not know. All he felt was a distress, a nausea at his own. Castration. The triumph of the eunuch. Turning away from nature and reality had atrociously distorted the relationship between painter and audience; now one painted for intellects and theories.Not people; and worst of all, not for oneself. Of course it paid dividends, in economic and vogue terms, but what had really been set up by this jettisoning of the human body and its natural physical perceptions was a vicious spiral, a vortex, a drain to nothingness, to a painter and a critic agreed on only one thing: that only they exist and have value. A good gravestone; for all the scum who didn’t care a damn.
He suffered the most intense pang of the most terrible of all human deprivations; which is not of possession, but of knowledge.
¤ ¤ ¤
Eliduc
The Romantics turned minstrelsy into an irredeemably silly word; but what little evidence we have suggests a very great art, one we have lost now beyond recall.
The long evolution of fiction has been very much bound up with finding means to express the writer’s “voice” – his humors, his private opinions, his nature – by means of word manipulation and print alone.
¤ ¤ ¤
Poor Koko
I sat distraught, with the flames and malevolently licking shadows; with the acrid smell, surely the most distressing of all after burnt human flesh, of cremated human knowledge.
¤ ¤ ¤
The Enigma
“This writer of yours – has he come up with a scenario for that?”
“That’s just a detail. I’m trying to sell you the motive.”
The tender pragmatisms of flesh have poetries no enigma, human or divine, can diminish or demean – indeed, it can only cause them, and then walk out.
¤ ¤ ¤
The Cloud
O, you must wear your rue with a difference.
Little islands set in their own limitless sea, one crossed them in a minute, in five at most, then it was a different island but the same: the same voices, the same masks, the same emptiness behind the words. Only the moods and settings changed a little but nothing else.And the fear was both of being left behind and going on: of the islands past and the islands ahead. One is given to theories of language, of fiction, of illusion; and also to silly fancies. Like dreaming one is a book without its last chapters, suddenly: one is left forever on that last incomplete page, a loved face kneeling over wild orchids, a voice breaking the silence, a stupid crack – transfixed, for ever and ever…
The most frightening is not wanting love from anyone, or ever again.
Nuclei, electrons. Seurat, the atom is all.
The voices, movements; kaleidoscope, one shake and all will disappear.
.
mika said,
January 8, 2009 at 6:27 pm
he seems like an enigmatic author indeed! is his prose difficult to read?
haha, knowing look? what a gap there can be between the artist and his art! oh yeah, just wondering, have you ever tried writing a story or composing music? :)
Miracle ♪♫ said,
January 8, 2009 at 7:16 pm
Perhaps not as exhausting as Mann, Mika, but he does require patience and full attention.
Haha… yeah, the knowing look as a continuation to our discussion pertaining what is obscure about the artist but which can only be transparent through art.
Yes, Mika. Writing stories were part of my college curriculum but no one is allowed to read them anymore… as for music, I had compositions when I was about seven years old and no one is allowed to listen to them anymore as well. wehehe =D
mika said,
January 9, 2009 at 9:33 pm
haha, that’s alright, Miracle :)
sopraninigabi said,
March 20, 2009 at 12:39 pm
Just read his “THE FRENCH LIEUTENANT’S WOMAN.” Whoa. Yet another great read, thanks so much for pointing us in the right direction Meewa dear!
Miracle ♪♫ said,
March 20, 2009 at 6:04 pm
Ah! That book is one of my all-time favorites, Gabi. Fowles pierces one’s heart beautifully, doesn’t he? I’m very glad to hear that Fowles has a new admirer. ;-)