/lit/ - Literature

>>1492841
It's good. Fowles has a kind of smugness that rubs off on most of the interior monologues he writes, but it can be awfully satisfying to indulge in once in a while, regardless of how flawed they are. Parts of the book are straight-up erotica: Just a warning. I put it in the realm of high-minded thriller, like if you want a satisfying beach read with some philosophical muscle injected into it ala Foucault's Pendulum or Deliverance.

>I have in any case no memory at all for novels, for their ideas, plots, or characters. I could not even reconstitute my own with any accuracy if I was obliged to. I suppose I read as I write. I live the direct and present experience very intensely; but when it is over, it sinks very rapidly out of sight. So all I can honestly offer is a couple dozen shelves of magpie nonsense, nine tenths forgotten by everyone else and even by myself in every but some very remote and rare-snagging sense.

John Fowles is a boss. He writes serious literature, and isn't afraid to throw in some spice erotica once in a while.