The Collector

by John Fowles

Pale Clouded Yellow, for instance. I always thought of her like that, I mean words like elusive and sporadic, and very refined—not like the other ones, even the pretty ones. More for the real connoisseur.

There were even times I thought I would forget her. But forgetting’s not something you do, it happens to you. Only it didn’t happen to me.

I thought, I can’t ever get to know her in the ordinary way, but if she’s with me, she’ll see my good points, she’ll understand. There was always the idea she would understand.

What you do blurs over what you did before.

In my opinion a lot of people who may seem happy now would do what I did or similar things if they had the money and the time. I mean, to give way to what they pretend now they shouldn’t. Power corrupts, a teacher I had always said. And Money is Power.

When you draw something it lives and when you photograph it it dies.”

If only people knew what they flew over. We’re all in aeroplanes.

The ordinary man is the curse of civilization. But he’s so ordinary that he’s extraordinary.

I was my mother’s daughter. A bitch.

He is ugliness. But you can’t smash human ugliness.

It’s despair that perfectly normal young men can be made vicious and evil because they’ve won a lot of money. And then do what you’ve done to me.

The only thing that really matters is feeling and living what you believe—so long as it’s something more than belief in your own comfort.