Sep 21
I'm not quite sure why, but around the age of twelve I stopped reading. I may have simply turned to, well, the other pursuits of twelve-year olds, or it was the revolting introduction to the 'study' of books at school. In any case, I stopped. Then at eighteen I picked up a book one day, and it was like someone lit the kindling on a bonfire. The book that brought me back was John Fowles' the Magus, a story of mystery and intrigue and sex. It has been so long, I can't actually say how well it holds up, but I'll always be thankful for the fact that it got me reading again. I didn't read any more Fowles, instead turning to Amis, Barnes, McEwan, all the cool boys, and from there to the classics. A couple of years later I was in Italy and saw an advertisement for a reading by Fowles the next day. I decided to go, and since I was going I thought I had better have a Fowles book in my hand. I bought The Collector and read it that night, like I was preparing for a possible pop quiz. For the uninitiated, it is a nightmarish story of a man who abducts a young girl and keeps her prisoner, written as though it were her diary of events and his, published side by side. I have no memory of what he read that day, nor much about the answers to the questions he was asked. Most questions were uninteresting - 'Why was so-and-so set in Cornwall?' or 'Why is that female character so flat?', and Fowles looked like an English farmer asked to explain Quantum Electrodynamics. He was desperately incompetent at explaining himself. However when he could answer with an anecdote, you could almost see his brain light up again behind his eyes. He could have been describing the changing of a light-bulb, but we were all enthralled. He struck me as a man who was incapable of anything, even changing a light-bulb, except that one gift: firing up people's imagination and carrying them away. He was put on this Earth to tell stories. After the question-time there were biscuits and book-signing. Fowles sat in a corner and, surprisingly, gave everyone who approached a generous amount of face time. When there was an opening, I walked up with my sped-read Collector in hand, told him my little story about why He as an author had a special place in my heart. He seemed to be genuinely trying to feign interest and appreciation, which was nice. He then opened my book (or his book, I should perhaps say), and, on the title page pointed to a little quote in italics I hadn't noticed. It read 'que fors aus ne le sot riens nee'. Yeah, I didn't know either. And told him.
He explained, "It means 'which only these two will know'".
I clicked. "Ah I see, the man and the girl in the story, we'll never know what really happened, only how they tell it".
He smiled, and started scribbling something in the book. I hadn't asked for any in particular and waited with a kind of astonished excitement. There it was, in all its non-cursive clarity "Which only we two will know, John Fowles" I toddled off with my trophy, a bit bemused, wondering whether it was a beautifully kind gesture to a stranger and a fan, or the worst little fraud in literary history. Or a moment of post-modern genius.
What only we two will know
I'm not quite sure why, but around the age of twelve I stopped reading. I may have simply turned to, well, the other pursuits of twelve-year olds, or it was the revolting introduction to the 'study' of books at school. In any case, I stopped. Then at eighteen I picked up a book one day, and it was like someone lit the kindling on a bonfire. The book that brought me back was John Fowles' the Magus, a story of mystery and intrigue and sex. It has been so long, I can't actually say how well it holds up, but I'll always be thankful for the fact that it got me reading again. I didn't read any more Fowles, instead turning to Amis, Barnes, McEwan, all the cool boys, and from there to the classics. A couple of years later I was in Italy and saw an advertisement for a reading by Fowles the next day. I decided to go, and since I was going I thought I had better have a Fowles book in my hand. I bought The Collector and read it that night, like I was preparing for a possible pop quiz. For the uninitiated, it is a nightmarish story of a man who abducts a young girl and keeps her prisoner, written as though it were her diary of events and his, published side by side. I have no memory of what he read that day, nor much about the answers to the questions he was asked. Most questions were uninteresting - 'Why was so-and-so set in Cornwall?' or 'Why is that female character so flat?', and Fowles looked like an English farmer asked to explain Quantum Electrodynamics. He was desperately incompetent at explaining himself. However when he could answer with an anecdote, you could almost see his brain light up again behind his eyes. He could have been describing the changing of a light-bulb, but we were all enthralled. He struck me as a man who was incapable of anything, even changing a light-bulb, except that one gift: firing up people's imagination and carrying them away. He was put on this Earth to tell stories. After the question-time there were biscuits and book-signing. Fowles sat in a corner and, surprisingly, gave everyone who approached a generous amount of face time. When there was an opening, I walked up with my sped-read Collector in hand, told him my little story about why He as an author had a special place in my heart. He seemed to be genuinely trying to feign interest and appreciation, which was nice. He then opened my book (or his book, I should perhaps say), and, on the title page pointed to a little quote in italics I hadn't noticed. It read 'que fors aus ne le sot riens nee'. Yeah, I didn't know either. And told him.
He explained, "It means 'which only these two will know'".
I clicked. "Ah I see, the man and the girl in the story, we'll never know what really happened, only how they tell it".
He smiled, and started scribbling something in the book. I hadn't asked for any in particular and waited with a kind of astonished excitement. There it was, in all its non-cursive clarity "Which only we two will know, John Fowles" I toddled off with my trophy, a bit bemused, wondering whether it was a beautifully kind gesture to a stranger and a fan, or the worst little fraud in literary history. Or a moment of post-modern genius.
