It was just like a strike of lighting upon my very head. Very rarely does a book move me half as much as The Collector did (although I didn`t even read it in the original language). The crazy maniac who collects butterfly and locks up a young girl in his basement is some form of that stupid sort of villain that appears in silly books but it`s not about the plot. It`s much more about the psychology of a completely insane person and of one of his victims (and don`t you think that it`s as simple as inducing fear or some sexual perversions - it`s much worse than that). And the ending is especially horrific.Quotes: "If God exists then he is a disgusting spider weaving his web in the dark.""God is an impotent. He can not love us. He hates us because is uncapable to love.""The new middle class still is the poor order. Only their poverty has changed. Once they hand no money, now they have no soul."
After having read `The Collector` I expected this one not to be much worse. The first and the longest of the stories entitled just like the book was a major disapointment - I don`t really like books about the life of visual artists, and this one is no exception. Some sort of a senseless love story and a few naked girls is all this book can offer. "Elinduk" is even worse - some romantic medieval nonsense. The last two stories managed to improve the impression on the whole book - "Poor Coco" is a story about a writer that doesn`t stand for himself and suffers because of that. "The Riddle" tells us a story about a man that disapears - but it is not a true detective, it`s too postmodern for that.
I bought "Daniel Martin" when I was in London something like one and a half years ago. My logic was the following - a huge book that`s written by the author of the masterful "The Collector" - how can I deny myself the pleasure of reading it? Yet upon my return I somehow just couldn`t force myself to start reading it - it is very thick after all and I usually prefer smaller books. Yeah, I know that it sucks judging a book by its size but I have been observing a tendency that big books tend to be interesting in less cases than smaller books - because it`s hard to maintain a high level of a tight story for something like 700 pages.
A man with amnesia awakes in a hospital where untraditional methods to help people to remember are being used. He finds out that the hospital is really in his mind and so are the perversions. Although I consider myself a fan of modern literature this piece here is a bit too pornographic to me. To summarise everything in one sentence - Mr. Fowles is trying to show your humble servant that writing a novel is the same as having sex (or something like that). There are some quite interesting dialogues between Miles and Eratho but between all the crap it still doesn`t make a good point. I`d never think that a man who wrote `The Collector` could create something like that. It`s not even disgusting - it`s just plainly bad and pretends to be a porn book at some stages, without being really sarcastic.
Ar Džonu Faulzu manas attiecības sākās ar "Kolekcionāru", kas man lika šo rakstnieku sākt cienīt ļoti lielā mērā. Vēl bija "Franču leitnanta draudzene", kas arī bija laba, bet tālāk viņš man vairākkārt lika vilties, un es biju guvis pārliecību, ka Faulzam veiksmīgi darbi mijās ar neveiksmīgākiem, turklāt tieši otrās kategorijas bija vairāk. "Tārps" nevarēja visu apgriezt otrādi - tas nepadarīja "Mantisu" labāku, bet tas man atgrieza ticību, ka manis nelasīto šī rakstnieka darbu vidū varētu atrasties vēl kāds šedevrs.