Quotes from John Fowles

I love honesty and freedom and giving. I love making, I love doing, I love being to the full, I love everything which is not sitting and watching and copying and dead at heart.

Singurul lucru cu adev?rat important este s? simÈ›i È™i s? tr?ieÈ™ti pentru lucrurile în care crezi - atâta vreme cât nu te limitezi s? crezi numai în propriul t?u confort.

Trebuie s? faci întotdeauna ceva. Când crezi cu adev?rat în ceva, trebuie s? acÈ›ionezi. A te mulÈ›umi s? vorbeÈ™ti despre acÈ›iune este ca È™i cum te-ai l?uda dinainte cu tablourile pe care ai de gând s? le pictezi. E de cel mai îngrozitor prost gust.

That's the great dead thing in him.

I saw that this cataclysm must be an expiation for some barbarous crime of civilization, some terrible human lie. What the lie was, I had too little knowledge of history or science to know then. I know now it was our believing that we were fulfilling some end, serving some plan—that all would come out well in the end, because there was some great plan over all. Instead of the reality. There is no plan. All is hazard. And the only thing that will preserve us is ourselves.

Cei ce ne educ? îngr?m?desc în noi atâtea idei vechi, opinii învechite, vechi modalit??i de acÈ›iune. Ca È™i cum ai acoperi plantele cu straturi peste straturi de p?mânt vechi. Nici nu e de mirare c? bietele ml?diÈ›e care r?sar sunt rareori verzi È™i proaspete.

Noi doi singuri în camer?. Nici trecut, nici viitor. Doar intensitatea È™i profunzimea momentului. SenzaÈ›ia c? totul avea în mod implacabil un sfârÈ™it: muzica, noi doi, luna, absolut totul. Dac? reuÈ™eÈ™ti s? p?trunzi în miezul lucrurilor, nu g?seÈ™ti altceva decât tristeÈ›e, numai tristeÈ›e, mereu È™i pretutindeni, dar o tristeÈ›e frumoas?, argintie, precum chipul lui Hristos.

No le importa lo que yo digo y lo que siento. Mis sentimientos no significan nada para él. El hecho que le importa es que me tiene en su poder.

We were equally tired, in mid-century, of cold sanity and hot blasphemy; of the over-cerebral and of the over-faecal; the way out lay somewhere else. Words had lost their power, either for good or for evil; still hung, like a mist, over the reality of action, distorting, misleading, castrating; but at least since Hitler and Hiroshima they were seen to be a mist, a flimsy superstructure.

The fear I felt was the same old fear; not of the appearance, but of the reason behind the appearance. It was not the mask I was afraid of, because in our century we are too inured by science fiction and too sure of science reality ever to be terrified of the supernatural again; but of what lay behind the mask. The eternal source of all fear, all horror, all real evil, man himself.

The rebel with no specific gift for rebellion is destined to become the drone; and even this metaphor is inexact, since the drone has at least a small chance of fecundating the queen, whereas the human rebel-drone is deprived even of that small chance and may finally see himself as totally sterile, lacking not only the brilliant life-success of the queens but even the humble satisfactions of the workers in the human hive. Such

a personality is reduced to mere wax, a mere receiver of impressions; and this condition is the very negation of the basic drive in him—to rebel. It is no wonder that in middle age many such failed rebels, rebels turned self-conscious drones, aware of their susceptibility to intellectual vogues, adopt a mask of cynicism that cannot hide their more or less paranoiac sense of having been betrayed by life." ' While

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.

Their fear of the open and of the naked. Hide reality, shut out nature. The revolutionary art movement of Charles's day was of course the Pre-Raphaelite. They, at least, were making an attempt to admit nature and sexuality.

I am weak. But ashamed of your weakness. What good could my strength bring to the world?

From this skull-rock strange golden roots throw Ikons and incidents; the man in the mask Manipulates. I am the fool that falls And never learns to wait and watch, Icarus eternally damned, the dupe of time . . .

De ce trebuie s? le toler?m noi calibanitatea lor? De ce este nevoie ca orice persoan? vital?, creatoare ?i generoas? s? fie martirizat? de grosol?nia din jur?

I had just written a letter to Alison, but already she seemed far away, not in distance, not in time, but in some dimension for which there is no name. Reality, perhaps.

Viva. Pero viva a la manera en que está viva la muerte.

Nadie, desde fuera de ella, puede imaginar lo que es la vida en una prisión. Uno piensa que, bueno, al menos tendrá horas para leer y pensar, y que el tiempo no pasará tan mal. Pero pasa terriblemente mal. Con una exasperante lentitud.

Fue como si me hubiera caído, desde el borde del mundo, al vacío. Un borde que apareció así, como de repente.

La maldad de todo el mundo está compuesta por millones de pequeñas gotas. Es una idiotez hablar de la falta de importancia de esas pequeñas gotas. Las pequeñas gotas y el océano son la misma cosa.

Under the silver nailparing of a moon. I felt, though without any melancholy at all, that sense of existential solitude, the being and being alone in a universe, that still nights sometimes give.

We all want things we can't have. Being a decent human being is accepting that.