I mean, where else would you learn about underwear and spiritual transformation in the same place?Īs is often the case in Fowles, there’s more going on than meets the eye.
Fowles makes no bones that the earthiness – and striving to surpass it – is the key design of the work. It’s a time where there’s intellectual questing, and widespread poverty where virtue is often a sham, played for public benefit. It’s a period where one’s personal devotions can bring ruin, unless the insulation of either station or sterling can protect you. It is, after all, the 1700s, as inserted pages from The Gentleman’s Magazine will corroborate. The story, with its travellers moving through a landscape on an undisclosed mission, brings older tales of seclusion and secrecy, of fellow-traveller backstory to mind.
Given that I’d always imagined him as a bit of a stand-offish, pip-pip-eh-what bloke, hearing such enthusiasm is a bit staggering, but welcome (albeit surprising).ĭon’t let the hat fool you: homeboy HATES meeting people. As a result, it’s unsurprising that Fowles can’t help but insert himself into the text at points, so enthused is he about the things he’ll tackle in this sixth novel. It’s the archaic variant: a fancy, or even an earworm. The title doesn’t refer to the common, flesh-consuming meaning of the word. I guess the fact that the author has taken a kitchen-sink approach to the work – it’s variously a mystery, historical record, SF exploration, class critique and theological query – ensures that there really is something for everyone here. But as I’ve aged, I think I’ve come to appreciate it a lot more, as this reread was supremely enjoyable. I wasn’t quite so taken with A Maggot the first time I read it, a dozen or so years ago. I’m a bit of a fan of Fowles because of the creepy perfection of his first novel, The Collector, and the madness of The Magus, a book spent a couple of years pushing on people at any opportunity.
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