[b]John Fowles from The Collector
It is me. I am his madness. For years he’s been looking for something to put his madness into. And he found me.[/b]
And then, after adding you to his collection, he killed you.
I mean I never feel I feel what I ought to feel.
And then, even worse, some days I do.
Do you know that every great thing in the history of art and every beautiful thing in life is actually what you call nasty or has been caused by feelings that you would call nasty? By passion, by love, by hatred, by truth. Do you know that?
Let’s just say that, as with most things she attempted to impart, it was over his head.
You put up with your voice and speak with it because you haven’t any choice. But it’s what you say that counts.
Clearly with some godawful exceptions.
I have a strange illusion quite often. I think I’ve become deaf. I have to make a little noise to prove I’m not. I clear my throat to show myself that everything is normal. It’s like the little Japanese girl they found in the ruins of Hiroshima. Everything dead; and she was singing to her doll.
What in your life would you compare to Hiroshima?
The power of women! I’ve never felt so full of mysterious power. Men are a joke.
And then one day one of them kidnaps and kills you.