Daniel Martin by John Fowles

"Images are inherently fascistic because they overstamp the truth, however dim and blurred, of the real past experience; as if, faced with ruins, we must turn architects, not archaeologist.  The word is the most imprecise of signs.  Only a science-obsessed age could fail to comprehend that this is its great virtue, not its defect.  What I was trying to tell Jenny in Hollywood was that I would murder my past if I tried to evoke it on camera; and it is precisely because I can't really evoke it in words, can only hope to awaken some analogous experience in other memories and sensitivities, that it must be written."

Page 87  

All things considered I'm not sure this novel should work.  The ending result is far greater than the sum of the parts I can breakdown.  It's the lack of sense of direction that gives the novel both a leisurely feel and difficulty in expressing exactly what the book is about.  Daniel Martin is about identity, one man's place in the world, how he has come to be the person he is and, primarily, about the people and relationships he has shared that shaped his life.  

The title character is a very successful screenwriter who always feels he sold out when he stopped writing theatre and bought into the Hollywood way of life.  The impending death of a friend from cancer shatters the reality that Daniel has built for himself when he is called home to Oxford.  

It is upon Daniel's arrival in his native England that he begins to questions many things in his life.  Fowles never seeks to judge his characters; merely examines the multiple facets that govern how their lives have turned out the way they have.  Daniel reunites and reconciles with his terminal best friend Anthony and his wife Jane, whom he hasn't visited, nor had communication with for years.  The ugly past is recalled; the dirty laundry is cleaned and dried.  Anthony's death and a few recollections of the past show a unique intimacy shared by many of the main characters.  Jane, her sister Nell, Anthony, Nell's husband, and Daniel show how a group of friends, who all develop strong relationships with each other during their years at Oxford can come and go; in and out of each other's lives with varying degrees of significance: sometimes offering comfort and support, sometimes encouragement and laughter, other times marriage.  Fowles--in a very liberal definition of the word that I haven't seen used before--often times describes the intimacy of this group of friends as a type of incest: whatever happens between any of them is okay, excused and forgiven due to the fact that they all genuinely love each other, and yet it is because of the genuine feeling that they all share that certain things should be forbidden without having to say so.  

In coming home Daniel is quickly placed into a situation of forced intimacy with Caroline, his daughter who he has played a very small part in her life, and also with Nell, Caroline's mother, Daniel's ex-wife.  It is in getting to know Caroline better that Daniel gains some distance and objectivity in what he has left behind in Hollywood: Jenny McNeil, a young up-and-coming Scottish film star Caroline's age.  Daniel knows this relationship will never work and tries his best to break it off but he see how stubborn a young woman can be as he learns of Caroline's relationship with a B-list TV personality who is twice her age and her reluctance to give up on what she feels is right.

There is a simplicity to the story as much of what is told is nothing more than seeing Daniel go about day-to-day life, or as he says more than once, perhaps the life he should have been living.  While never disjunct the story does bounce around a lot between Daniel's past: near, recent and distant.  There are those who would say any deviation from chronological order is a bad, but the flashbacks are usually employed to highlight or further expound on some personality quark that one of the stubbornly intelligent characters clings to and refuses to relinquish; thus impeding all progress in their life. The vignettes that make up Daniel's past, some up to a hundred pages, often make up some of the most memorable reading of the book: such as Daniel growing up in the vicarage parish in the Church of England, or his relationship with 'two other sisters,' and in particular his first love.  Those are but a few of the lengthy passages that I could single out for re-reading on a lonely afternoon for a lovely way to pass time.  Another point of interest and source of constant reader involvement is figuring out who the narrater is.  Daniel's voice is a bit obvious, but I know Jenny wrote a few passages, Jane some others, the all-knowing third person narrater more still.  If someone definitively told me Anthony wrote any part of the book considering his heavy Christian convictions and highly academic, philosophical mind I'd have to re-access everything I thought I knew about Daniel Martin and read it again.  (And considering I've lived with this book for more than two months, I'm in no hurry to do that right now, though I can think of much worse fates in life than reading Fowles with regularity.)  

The book is a study on life, living, the world around us, the people who are important in our lives, and what we can do with the time given to us on Earth.  There is a lot of philosophy though it is dealt with enough of a light hand as to not need a reference guide to read the novel.  Daniel Martin perhaps builds to a vacation in Egypt with Daniel and Jane, it is proposed most innocently, and ends with the most dramatic of results--and not what you're thinking either.  The holiday shows a contrast and acceptance of the book's two most impossible characters and perhaps, if not acceptance the coming to terms with Daniel's most vicious philosophy: "To hell with cultural fashion; to hell with elitist guilt; to hell with existentialist nausea; and above all, to hell with the imagined that does not say, not only in, but behind the images, the real."  Which begs the questions when you've gone to hell with all the preceding, what exactly are you left with?

It's an extremely "English" novel, and Daniel has a bit of a funny crisis of conscious upon learning that he is in fact the most English of all Englishmen.  (More on the horrors of being English in a few days.)  In a nutshell, it could be said the book is about the differences in being American and English during the time of Daniel Martin's life.  I also feel that such a terse distillation of the book would undermine some of the more powerful, subtle and intimate aspects of the novel.  There is nothing difficult about reading Daniel Martin, but it is extremely complex.  At best guess this novel encompasses thirty years and the cast of characters involved is massive.  It's longer than War and Peace... and much like the latter wholly engrossing and worth your reading time.  As I said before, this is a book you live with for a while.  You won't always know where you're going, or for that matter where you currently are, but by the time you reach the final destination you'll be extremely happy you signed up for the ride.    

The Right Book at the Right Time

So I'm reading Daniel Martin right now by John Fowles; who is a long standing favorite author of mine.  It's huge, the pacing is well controlled and like all other books by him I've read, it's a book you expect to spend some time with as opposed to blowing through in a weekend.  Fowles was English and not of my generation.  It has taken me a while to figure out why I think I have such stumbling blocks with him concerning his writing.

I have a handful of reading disabilities and Fowles syntax is not always 'American' (which is not a fault) added to which he is really good at structuring his words to evoke certain thoughts and feelings in his readers.  My biggest problem in reading anything is seeing what is actually written as opposed to what I want to be there: Fowles gives me fits.  (You should hear me read aloud sometimes: it funny to hear someone else go back and read what was actually written instead of what I read.)  That said, I think he needs about a tenth of the book's overall length before he hits his stride and things start to flow, or perhaps that's just me.

I've spoken before about reading a great book at a time when your mind isn't in it.  Daniel Martin is exactly what I need to be reading right now.  I've been in a rut and this book has made me fall back in love with the use of words and language to achieve a response from a reader.  It's not the greatest thing ever committed to paper; it's merely the right book that I need to be reading right now.

Oh, and while not the greatest thing ever it does happen to be really good.

The French Lieutenant's Woman by John Fowles

"What are we faced with in the nineteenth century?  An age where woman was sacred; and where you could buy a thirteen-year-old girl for a few pounds--a few shillings, if you wanted her for only an hour or two. (…)  Where the female body had never been so hidden from view; and where every sculptor was judged by his ability to carve naked women.  (…)  Where it was universally maintained that women do not have orgasms; and yet every prostitute was taught to simulate them." Pages 276-277

Nineteenth century Victorian England is the epitome of boring in my mind, and so to find myself so heavily engrossed and throughly enjoying a novel within this setting meant that I was holding something very special in my hands.  The French Lieutenant's Woman is far from what it seems: the title is misleading as the eponymous character is secondary and merely a vehicle of destruction, the narrative is near impossible to take seriously due to the author eternally making fun of both the story he's telling and how absurd it's events can seem to modern readers, and finally--and what is the most apt reason that I could so throughly enjoy a book set in nineteenth century Victorian England--despite all Fowles' research, affected dialogue and period prose, The French Lieutenant's Woman is anything but a Victorian novel.  (Apropos the title, upon finishing the book I thought The French Lieutenant's Whore would have been a much better title, but not for the reasons you think.) 

The story is as simple as you would expect given the novel's historical setting.  Charles and Ernestina are engaged to be married.  They are both absurdly rich, and never perform any duty which would be misconstrued as work.  Ernestina has 'Oprah' money while 'Charles' is closer to a meager 'Steve Jobs.'  Much tension and drama comes due to the disparity of their financial stations.  Charles is older, educated and an experienced worldly world traveler.  Ernestina is very young, very pretty, willing sheltered and excellent in the realm of knitting and home decorating.  There is a third person, Sarah, who is everything that Ernestina is not: smart, beguiling… interesting.  Sarah's claim to fame resides in the fact that it is prominently known to all the world that she has actually had sex and a chance meeting between her and Charles changes lives.  I'm sure many a novel has been written with less material than what I have given above and I'm equally sure many a Victorian writer has written something substantial with less, however, I've yet to mention the main character in The French Lieutenant's Woman, a weapon that no writer 'of the time' could posses: John Fowles.

Authors often insert themselves in their stories; Fowles is the narrator.  He offers commentary, insight, and even explanation as to plot developments taking the course they did.  In using such a simple story as outlined above, Fowles does as many writers of the time did and subtly introduce themes of greater significance by ruining his characters lives.  What he doesn't do is apologize for the complete lack of subtly in breaking through the fourth wall.

Fowles talks directly to his readers.  He tells us of the pain and difficulty of being favored and extraordinarily wealthy in nineteenth century England.  He enlightens us to the hypocrisies of the era (as in the opening quote) and with the greatest of mocking humor he gives real insight as to why simple situations in the life and times of the fictional characters he created create such gravity and in turn enhances his own story.  

To say the book is about sex is a bit base even by my standards.  (And after all, Victorians didn't have sex.)  To say it's not about sex is false.  And therein lies one of the book's strongest enigmas and enduring accomplishments: despite all Fowles efforts and what was surely a colossal amount research he knowingly didn't--couldn't--write a Victorian era novel. 

It becomes a running joke when the narrator, Fowles, makes continued references to anachronisms as airplanes and computers; none is stronger than his mention of existentialism being the default structure of interpretation among readers of the time.  (The novel was written in 1969.)  Today's reader would reply to the drama that Fowles' characters go through in the tone of voice of, "Take your prozac, quit your bitchin' and move on…" as the narrator, Fowles gives credences and ultimately gravity to the situation by pedantically explaining why circumstances were profound to the parties involved.  It is also Fowles, the narrator, who mercilessly mocks his characters from a distance as he makes them suffer in the narrative and it is this mocking tone that we, the readers, can clearly hear the voice of Raskolnikov or Yossarian; the eye rolling levity found in a situation that is obviously very serious to one intimate with the circumstance.  There is a necessity in Fowles having this tone of voice and not his characters: at the time the story takes place,1869, existentialism had yet to hit England, yet, it is through this lense that Fowles presents the novel to his readers.

There are multiple betrayals in the novel and none greater than the shocker that befalls Charles and the manner that the truth becomes known.  At this point, about two-thirds the way through, we can see that Ernestina is and always has been a Victorian woman, and yet Charles and Sarah are unknowingly striving, perhaps even against their will, to be the harbingers of a new era.  They attempt, and utterly fail, to be more modern people: honest in all things, realistic, open and not so pretentiously phony as the cant of Victorian life.  They were way ahead of the culture curve and both end up suffering.  Should you think I've given anything away concerning the plot you're wrong: everything falls apart, there is no happily ever after; everyone dies… okay, not really. 

Sarah is perhaps one of the more destructive characters you can come across in a book.  She seems ready to ignite under the pressure of her own weight and is determined to take someone else with her.  She knowingly, or unknowingly, fights against conventions of the time and in their ruin--and through today's contemporary lense--can only be seen as progressive woman.  She forces many other characters to change and grow well beyond the perimeters of Victorian norms.  While she remains the catalyst, Charles is undoubtedly the lead character.  This may seem backward, but for women and Victorian society to progress, it was primarily men that had to change.  Men had to start seeing women as something greater than what the times allowed them to be.    

The simplicity of the plot is deceptive much like all good Victorian novels.  The rewards are a greater understanding of an era that none today can fully wrap their heads around.  This is a damn good book and one that is near impossible to stereotype; it isn't Victorian, it's too phony to be existentialism and even the catch-all, ludicrous, nomenclature 'post-modern' fails to satisfy.  There is some horrible poetry.  (Charles's own, not the chapter quotes.)  There is the worst depiction of a sex scene ever--it was unfortunately probably very true to how things where for both parties at the time.  (Well, can you imagine Victorian English actually having good sex?)  Ugh… I usually dedicate at least a paragraph to what I think are shortcomings of a novel in my commentaries, there isn't that much material to do so. 

No matter what you're reading preference, if you like to read, (or perhaps to better qualify, if you like to read and read regularly) you will find much to enjoy in The French Lieutenant's Woman.   

The Collector by John Fowles

This is not a feel good book. Nor is it one that I think anyone would say they had 'fun' reading. It is dark, it is blunt, and extremely compelling. This is one of the books that make me wonder how an author can do so much with so few pages. It is a concise narrative of obsession gone too far.

The eponymous entomology hobbyist, Frederick, is an impeccably clean young man; kind hearted and generous in his own way. He is boring, simple and while not uneducated he is without any strong passions in life; right up until he kidnaps an art student in broad daylight under the London sky. He thinks himself to be very smart and can justify his actions to the very end. He is socially inept and finds taking the woman who has captured his interest captive the only way that he would ever have a chance to express his feelings. Most disturbing of his character traits is that he sees nothing wrong with his actions.

I can't imagine a reader not sympathizing with Miranda Grey. After the terrible experience of being abducted she is treated like royalty and given everything she can ask for; expect her freedom. I think my own personal real life experience (I was once twenty years old for an entire year and have a bachelors and masters of the arts in piano performance--one of the arts Miranda is always talking about) inhibited me from caring about her as much as I should have. She keeps a diary during her captivity and in addition to current events she recalls much happier past times. Most of her recollections are about friends and a certain person--G.P.--whom she is in love with in all ways but physical attraction. G.P. is more than twice her age in addition to being a 'romantic' artistic figure: aloof, non-conformist, an ideal hero of the younger generation. She is most attracted to his skill as an artist but also his bohemian lifestyle, and his live for the day attitude.

About a third of the way through the novel, Fowles starts a loose commentary on certain intellectual issues via Miranda's journal: humanity, vague points on religion and incessantly art. Frederick has given no thought to atomic warfare, but has no qualms in stealing away Miranda's life. Miranda believes herself to be a pacifist as it is in line with her 'hippie'/counter-culture movement she was part of before her abduction. Meanwhile, she struggles daily with the thought of finding a way to kill Caliban, her name for Frederick, in an effort to free herself, not out of any desire to want to hurt another living thing. She has no faith--if for no other reason than seemingly it is the way the 'in' crowd believes--yet constantly pleads to God to let her live through her ordeal. The on going art debate was the most interesting of the three.

Miranda's love interest G.P is a hippie for all practical purposes. I knew such people when I was in grad school… and despised them. He is the anti-Frederick in every way from appearance to emotion. Miranda herself was a bit eyeball-rolling-inducing for me as she admits to having no personal life experience in any of the area's she harps on and is more impressionable than the average twenty year old. And then there is Frederick/Caliban, and his 'art' juxtaposed against what Miranda has learned in school, what G.P. has shown her from real world experience, and what life as a prisoner in a young man's cellar has taught her to be true.

Some of the points made were a bit to subtle to truly impact, others prematurely developed, but what I loved was the presentation of the idea gave the reader something to think about.

Miranda is never once physically or sexually abused, which only heightens her fear of an impending act. What she never understands, and keeps her in a justifiable state of terror, is the true extent of Frederick's obsession. Just having her is enough, he doesn't need to 'do' anything.

All three characters (we only know of G.P. Through Miranda's journal but he is central to the story) are unified by their conceit and arrogance, and blinded by what they would call intelligence. I'd be afraid to read a book with more, and stronger superiority complexes than the cast of The Collector.

One could argue that there is some deus ex machina in the beginning--which in itself is a break from the normal use of a poor device. Caliban manages to come into substantial financial security and see his family safe to Australia so he just happens to live alone in great wealth the rest of his life. Yes, it could have been chance, and that is the way it is presented, but it felt a bit too convenient to me. And despite all the sympathy any reader could muster for Miranda, it was a bit tedious to listen to a twenty year old ramble about what is and isn't art. Especially so as it becomes clear that she has no opinions of her own, rather she is swayed by most anyone with influence in her life. Finally, I don't know how convinced I was by any of Fowles arguments of the arts and humanity.

My perceived flaws are infinitesimal and easily out weighted by the novels strong points: three phenomenal characters and one extraordinary circumstance. Take note that I didn't say I liked all the characters--in point of fact, I didn't like any of them--but I don't want that to take away from the skill with which they are crafted or the execution of their presentation in developing a story. My initial perceived shallowness of Miranda's character may in fact only be the most convincing and solid aspect of Fowles' writing: he perfectly captured a fleet-minded, impressionable, twenty year old women. And to think that this is a debut work. Talk about making an impact with a first publication…

I don't do horror fiction or anything of that nature and that is not what The Collector is. But it should scare you. It's plot is too vivid, and it's criminal all too real. It's not commercial and it's not a 'cozy' page turner. It is, however, thrilling and it will keep you reading.