THE COLLECTOR
by John Fowles
I wish I’d written this ...
... because it’s incredibly absorbing.
When I was in my teens, everyone who talked about books raved about John Fowles. He was THE author, the must-read guy. Nowadays, I never hear him mentioned. It’s a shame because he was a fine writer. THE COLLECTOR, THE MAGUS and THE FRENCH LIEUTENANT’S WOMAN all made a big impact on me back in the day. Now, rereading THE COLLECTOR, I can see why. This is a haunting study of obsession, social difference, and, to an extent, psychological horror, though this latter aspect is carefully underplayed. So many “woman trapped in cellar” type stories become frantic and bloody, but this one keeps it calm and subtle, and as a result the effects linger and even grow after the final page is turned. Masterful.
From the publisher
Withdrawn, uneducated and unloved, Frederick collects butterflies and takes photographs. He is obsessed with a beautiful stranger, the art student Miranda. When he wins the pools he buys a remote Sussex house and calmly abducts Miranda, believing she will grow to love him in time.
