Both Fowles and his wife, Elizabeth, looked weary. The noise of the traffic seven stories below washed against the tower of the hotel. Handling an artifact has the power to call up a past life in his imagination the haunting eyes of a portrait can recreate the sitter in his mind.īut here in his New York hotel suite there was no view and no sea sound. As curator of the local museum, he also spends much time amid the documents, dinosaur bones and photographs housed in its turreted turn-of-the-century building directly on the seafront. The windows open south onto his exotic garden, a sweeping harbor view of the town, and, further still, the gray-blue of the English Channel and the sky. He writes his fictions from a second-floor study in his eclectic 18th-Century house high on the hillside of the town of Lyme Regis. Time has always been Fowles’ preoccupying theme and his single question has been, “How shall one live within one’s own present moment?”Īt home on the green Dorset coast of England, history is Fowles’ natural element. “It’s a dream really, a kind of trip back in time,” John Fowles offered, talking about his newest novel, “A Maggot.”ĭreams that travel back in time have been the stock in trade of this celebrated 59-year-old English novelist through most of his 14 books of fiction and nonfiction.
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