She knows that life's going on around her and it's almost too much to bear. I want to scream." She remembers her sister, a boyfriend, past holidays, trips to the river, the sunshine, fresh air, apple trees. I've got the whole weight of the whole earth pressing in on this little box. Like Fred's butterflies, she's slowing suffocating in her underground cell. She misses her friends, college, art, relationships, but most of all she misses her freedom. Miranda's section of the novel is comprised of rambling diary entries and reminiscences about a past life from which she has been forcibly removed. She is young, childish and spoilt she rants and rages against her restraints, but she's terrified of Fred and has every reason to be. Mid-way through the book we're united with the victim, and Miranda's voice reinforces our view of the collector. Things like that disgusted me" – but he's in fact a weirdo, a pervert in the making, a deviant, who is only able to relate to women if they're tied up or unconscious. He paints himself as a prude – "No one will understand, they think I was just after her for the obvious. He doesn't want her to love him because he's common, he wants to possess her sexually. He doesn't extend her stay, but has no intention of ever letting her go. He doesn't keep her in a guest room, but locks her in a sound proof dungeon. Fred doesn't accidentally abduct Miranda, there's a sense that he's been leading up to this event his whole life. He's not a predator, but a man dealt an unfair hand and forced to act accordingly.Ĭhilling … Marcus Dunstan's film of The Collectorįowles invites us to defy his main character's excuses and read between the lines, and the facts paint a more chilling picture. If he wasn't angry and alone, he wouldn't need to kidnap the likes of Miranda: beautiful, wealthy, popular, just to get her to notice him. If he wasn't common and uneducated, he wouldn't be isolated from his peers. In a further attempt to draw sympathy from the reader, Fred blames class distinctions for his actions. She has everything she needs in her room except a key, so why is she so unyielding, so ungrateful? He believes he's Miranda's host and not her captor. In many ways, he's the perfect psychopath. Fred is especially terrifying because he seems oblivious to his own perversion and to the harm he inflicts on others. Dark, creepy and claustrophobic, it compels a gratitude for expanse and freedom.Ĭaptor and victim take turns detailing their points of view and we're first given an insight into the mind of a man whose transformation to kidnapper seemed inevitable from the very beginning. Nothing will make the reader appreciate their summer quite like John Fowles' debut novel, published in 1963. He's meticulous and tenacious, and the unsuspecting Miranda never stands a chance. He cancels the gardener and tells the vicar he wants nothing to do with the local village ensuring nobody will visit. He buys an incinerator to burn dirty clothes and destroy any evidence of his guest. He builds new doors and secret corridors. He purchases a house with a cellar which he converts into a guest room and a van with a storage compartment, ideal for catching prey. For a professed novice, he plans Miranda's kidnap in delicious detail, following her around for weeks, establishing her whereabouts on an hourly basis.
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