This is why you don't help people

The Collector
John Fowles

Once upon a time, I was not the glitzy blogger you all know and love today. No, I was instead a lowly assistant editor for an archaeological company. Ooh, archeology, you might be thinking. Like Jurassic Park and stuff. Yeah, not so much.

Instead of dinosaurs we found a lot of soil. Loam and stuff. Sometimes they found an arrowhead. Snore. Except that once we (and by we I mean they; I for one was never sullied by the field) once found a piece of a kneecap. True story.

For days the office was all aflutter. Whose knee was it? Some thought it heralded the discovery of a full skeleton. Could it belong to a murder victim, long undiscovered? What about some grandiose historical figure whose body was lost to time?

The secrets of the universe you contain, o ponderous orb

Turns out it belonged to a rabbit. And that chronicles the most interesting find I can remember.

Anyway, I bring up this most tedious of jobs because through it I came to meet ... Paul, I’ll call him, although such is obviously not his real name. Paul was, to put it gently, an utter freak of nature. Lacking any social skills whatsoever (and that says a lot coming from me), Paul rarely made eye contact and often stomped around for no reason. His desk was near mine, so I had a perfect view of his odd behavior; for example, I once stared in fascination as he snickered with the wall. Being the office grunt, I had reason to speak with him more than most others and soon he began to think of us as friends. He emailed me constantly: his weekend accounts, pop-quiz logic puzzles, and creepy dirty jokes about Helen Keller. Soon he began hounding me to have lunch and attend Friday-night art shows with him. Once he stood at my desk for five minutes without saying a word and I swear the man never blinked once.

Anyway, had I not left that job, I may have very well become a character in John Fowles' Collector. As Miranda to Paul’s Clegg, I’d be trapped in some dingy basement while Paul makes tea and brings me books, all the while imagining us the perfect couple. I’d have to make do with once-a-week baths and the subsequent walk back to the basement. Lacking any sharp object, I could not end my misery by repeatedly stabbing myself in the head but would instead be forced to endure the insipidness of a dull sociopath.

This dull sociopath is Ferdinand Clegg; his obsession is Miranda, a student to whom he has no real connection. This randomness is, of course, what makes the story even more frightening. Ferdinand (the astute reader has probably already caught the allusions to The Tempest, but if not, there you go) is, among other things, a butterfly collector. When he wins a large sum of money he is able to quit his job and pursue collecting full time. Of course, with such funds at his disposal, why stop at butterflies? With enough to fund his wildest desires, he decides to “collect” Miranda.

And what is the moral of this story? The Collector (like Silence of the Lambs after it) reinforces unforgiving creatures like myself. Allow me to explain. Why does Catherine Martin get captured by Buffalo Bill? Because she feels bad for the guy with the cast and tries to help him lift a sofa. Why does Miranda fall into the clutches of her madman? Don’t worry; it’s hardly a spoiler. She feels bad for the guy who hit a dog with his car and goes to help him. Dummies. I say help no one. At least not in person. Via email? Count on it!* A check in the mail? Help's on the way!** Otherwise ladies, keep walking. Hold your keys in your hand and prepare to gouge some eyes.

you don't know what pain is

In a nutshell: A quite intelligent novel; I could have done with less discussion on class (after awhile it detracted a bit from the story), but The Collector is overall an excellent psychological study.

Bibliolatry Scale: 5.5 out of 6 stars




*I may not respond
**no it's definitely not