The bowed head, the buried face. She is silent, she will never speak, never forgive, never reach a hand, never leave this frozen present tense. All waits, suspended. Suspended the autumn trees, the autumn sky, anonymous people. A blackbird, poor fool, sings out of season from the willows by the lake. A flight of pigeons over the houses; fragments of freedom, hazard, an anagram made flesh. And somewhere the stinging smell of burning leaves.
John FowlesEach age, each guilty age, builds high walls around its Versailles; and personally I hate those walls most when they are made by literature and art.
John FowlesDuty is but a pot. It holds whatever is put in it, from the greatest evil to the greatest good.
John FowlesI hate the uneducated and the ignorant. I hate the pompous and the phoney. I hate the jealous and the resentful. I hate the crabbed and mean and the petty. I hate all ordinary dull little people who aren't ashamed of being dull and little.
John FowlesThere is only one good definition of God: the freedom that allows other freedoms to exist.
John Fowles