A Tale of Misery, Mediocrity, and Meaninglessness
John Fowles’ debut novel, The Collector, has been lauded by some as a brilliant exploration of obsession and power dynamics. However, one must ask if these admirers have ever experienced anything more intellectually stimulating than a soggy slice of toast. The novel, masquerading as a psychological thriller, is little more than a tedious exercise in the glorification of mundane malevolence and the celebration of insipid characters who are as gripping as a wet paper towel.
The story centres around Frederick Clegg, a drab and dreary little man whose greatest aspiration is to possess a beautiful woman much like he collects butterflies. His obsession with Miranda Grey, an art student, culminates in her abduction and imprisonment in his cellar. This is where Fowles apparently expects his readers to be on the edge of their seats. However, the only edge we find ourselves teetering on is that of unconsciousness, as the plot plods along with all the excitement of watching paint dry.
Clegg’s character is meant to be disturbing, a commentary on the dangers of unchecked obsession and the banality of evil. Yet, he comes across as nothing more than a pitiful, socially inept bore. His internal monologues are the literary equivalent of listening to a record of nails on a blackboard. The prose is stilted and repetitive, lacking the depth required to truly unsettle or intrigue. One cannot help but feel that Fowles missed a golden opportunity to create a genuinely chilling villain. Instead, we are left with a caricature of creepiness, a man so lacking in charisma and cunning that it’s a wonder he managed to orchestrate a kidnapping at all.
Miranda, the object of Clegg’s obsession, is no better. Supposedly a representation of beauty, intelligence, and resilience, she instead comes across as a self-absorbed and insufferable prig. Her diary entries, intended to provide insight into her character and her plight, read like the whiny musings of a spoiled teenager. Her attempts at escape are half-hearted and her interactions with Clegg are filled with a condescension so thick, it’s a surprise she didn’t drown in it. One is left wondering if Fowles intended for readers to sympathise with her or merely to endure her.
The novel’s structure, alternating between Clegg’s and Miranda’s perspectives, is perhaps its only redeeming quality. However, this narrative technique is squandered on the likes of these two lifeless characters. Instead of providing a dynamic and multifaceted exploration of their relationship, it merely serves to prolong the agony of having to spend time in their company. The dual narrative drags the reader through the mire of their respective banalities, leaving one longing for the sweet release of the final page.
Fowles’ attempt at philosophical musings on the nature of art, power, and society are as subtle as a sledgehammer and about as effective. He wields his themes with all the grace of a bull in a china shop, bludgeoning the reader with obvious and unoriginal observations. It’s as if Fowles believed his audience to be as intellectually deficient as his characters, requiring every thought to be spoon-fed with the delicacy of a cafeteria lunch lady.
In conclusion, “The Collector” is a novel that should have been relegated to the dustbin of literary history, a relic of a time when mediocrity was mistaken for profundity. It is a torturous read, not because of its subject matter, but because of its sheer lack of anything resembling engaging storytelling or compelling characters. One can only hope that future generations will look back on it as a cautionary tale: a reminder that not every scribbling masquerading as psychological insight deserves to be read. Perhaps the greatest service The Collector could provide is as a cure for insomnia; in that, it would be unparalleled.
Wording 