Having initially spotted this book on the floor of a dusty second-hand bookshop in London, I was intrigued by the storyline. Being a firm supporter of libraries, I refrained from buying the £3 book and checked it out first.
The Collector pieces together the dissociated tale of an estranged captor and his captive against the backdrop of a secluded country cottage isolated from society. Here, Frederick Clegg, a collector of butterflies and an obsessive of beauty, becomes increasingly fascinated by another similarly beautiful creature. Turning his fantasy into reality, Frederick holds Miranda hostage in a house made just for her as he caters to her every wish except for her strongest desire: to be set free. The two struggle to coexist as tensions build and the two thirst for escape and restraint.
The element of excellence in this novel was Fowles' ability to depict parallels and oppositions within the two central characters. Like the art and fiction they discuss, Frederick and Miranda consistently defy and dispute. In Frederick's desire for a more romantic situation, he lovingly names himself the 'Ferdinand' to his Miranda to only have it backfire in his face as he becomes her 'Caliban' instead. Like The Tempest itself, the couple come from completely different backgrounds; the female taken by surprise. Miranda, in contrast to Frederick, prefers the harsher The Catcher in the Rye, baffled when Frederick doesn't understand its appeal. The same applies when they discuss and practise art. Frederick takes photographs: quick and calculated . Miranda, on the other hand, loves to draw and allow herself to express her emotions through sketching. However, the stark initial differences between the two begin to slowly dissipate as Miranda begins to lose her identity. Interestingly, it is in her drawing that this begins to be apparent in as she slowly loses her style causing her to copy the works of existing artists. She gradually begins wearing the clothes Frederick buys for her and across time in entrapment, her vigour and personality wan as she is stripped of her dignity. This is where the symbol of Frederick's butterfly collection begins to become significant. The dehumanising character of Miranda could easily be interchanged with his butterflies as she is lifelessly photographed and examined.
""They're dead." She gave me a funny look sideways. "Not these particularly. All photos. When you draw something it lives and when you photograph it it dies."
The narrative style of The Collector is also exciting. The first half is told by Frederick, a somewhat sociopathic man with infantile qualities. He humourously refers to educated people as being 'la-di-da' but this hints at the first signs of this man's inability to empathise and understand. The style of the prose brings the reader right into the mind of the man whilst still remaining artfully distant and critical - reflecting his frame of mind even further. Having the first account of events be from Frederick is notable as he fails to accurately recall Miranda's emotions. Therefore, when the reader is thrust into a diary format of Miranda's point of view, the change is startling and there is suddenly passion and personality in the narrative. The drastic change doesn't just separate the two further but allows the reader (who has become accustomed to Frederick's prose) to become conscious of emotion, making it even more effective. Additionally, the events are retold again from her point of view, so in having to essentially re-read the book again, perhaps Fowles is reiterating Miranda as an inferior character as even the reader is forced to listen to Miranda as a repeat of Frederick; belittling her further. There is also a circular nature in this novel, and in doing this, Fowles in able to relay the events to a broader level of realism as the structure mimics the cycle of a butterfly for example: beginning as an ugly creature which then experiences beauty if not only for a short while. Only Frederick's actions increase the chances of mistakes being made yet again and again and again.
I have to commend Fowles for convincingly crawling into the mind of a sociopath and how three-dimensional he managed to make the characters. Regardless of Frederick's detached temperament, we are able to understand why. The book also feels cleverly raw and intimate and therefore creates a tight microcosm; thrusting readers into a type of captivity of their own. The Collector is a curious blend of a fantastical but harsh display of reality.
(And then I found The Collector in a charity shop and purchased it for £1.99. Perhaps there was a sign in that initial restraint.)
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