JOHN FOWLES

The Collector - fragments
 

It haunted me. It kept me awake at nights, it made me forget what I was doing during the day. I stayed on and on at the Cremorne. It stopped being a dream, it began to be what I pretended was really going to happen (of course, I thought it was only pretending) so I thought of ways and means -- all the things I would have to arrange and think about and how I'd do it and all. I thought, I can't ever get to know her in the ordinary way, but if she's with me, she'll see my good points, she'll understand. There was always the idea she would understand.
Power. It's become so _real_.
I know the H-bomb is wrong. But being so weak seems wrong now too.
I wish I knew judo. Could make him cry for mercy.
This crypt-room is so stuffy, the walls squeeze in, I'm listening for him as I write, the thoughts I have are like bad drawings. Must be torn up at once.
Try try try to escape.
It's all I think of.
A strange thing. He fascinates me. I feel the deepest contempt and loathing for him, I can't stand this room, everybody will be wild with worry. I can sense their wild worry.
How can he love me? How can you love someone you don't know?
He wants desperately to please me. But that's what madmen must be like. They aren't deliberately mad, they must be as shocked in a way as everyone else when they finally do something terrible.
It's only this last day or two I could speak about him so.
All the way down here in the van it was nightmare. Wanting to be sick and afraid of choking under the gag. And then being sick. Thinking I was going to be pulled into some thicket and raped and murdered. I was sure that was it when the van stopped, I think that was why I was sick. Not just the beastly chloroform. (I kept on remembering Penny Lester's grisly dormitory stories about how her mother survived being raped by the Japanese, I kept on saying, don't resist, don't resist. And then someone else at Ladymont once said that it takes two men to rape you. Women who let themselves be raped by one man want to be raped.) I know now that wouldn't be his way. He'd use chloroform again, or something. But that first night it was, don't resist, don't resist.
I was grateful to be alive. I am a terrible coward, I don't want to die, I love life so passionately, I never knew how much I wanted to live before. If I get out of this, I shall never be the same.
I don't care what he does. So long as I live.
It's all the vile unspeakable things he _could_ do.

I've looked everywhere for a weapon, but there's nothing of any use, even if I had the strength and skill. I prop a chair against the iron door every night, so at least I shall know if he tries to get in without my hearing.

The silence. I've got a little more used to it now. But it is _terrible_. Never the least sound. It makes me feel I'm always waiting.
Alive. Alive in the way that death is alive.
Every night I do something I haven't done for years. I lie and pray. I don't kneel, I know God despises kneelers. I lie and ask him to comfort M and D and Minny, and Caroline who must feel so guilty and everyone else, even the ones it would do good to suffer for me (or for anyone else). Like Piers and Antoinette. I ask him to help this misery who has me under his power. I ask him to help me. Not to let me be raped or abused and murdered. I ask him for light.

Literally. Daylight.
I can't stand the absolute darkness. He's bought me night-lights. I go to sleep with one glowing beside me now. Before that I left the light on.
Waking up is the worst thing. I wake up and for a moment I think I'm at home or at Caroline's. Then it hits me.
I don't know if I believe in God. I prayed to him furiously in the van when I thought I was going to die (that's a proof _against_, I can hear G.P. saying). But praying makes things easier.
It's all bits and pieces. I can't concentrate. I've thought so many things, and now I can't think of one.
But it makes me feel calmer. The illusion, anyway. Like working out how much money one's spent. And how much is left.
It's afternoon. I should be in life class. Does the world go on? Does the sun still shine? Last night, I thought -- I am dead. This is death. This is hell. There wouldn't be other people in hell. Or just one, like him. The devil wouldn't be devilish and rather attractive, but like him.
I drew him this morning. I wanted to get his face, to illustrate this. But it wasn't any good, and he wanted it. Said he would pay TWO HUNDRED guineas for it. He is mad.
It is me. I am his madness.
For years he's been looking for something to put his madness into. And he found me.

I can't write in a vacuum like this. To no one. When I draw I always think of someone like G.P. at my shoulder.
All parents should be like ours, then sisters really become sisters. They _have_ to be to each other what Minny and I are.
Dear Minny.
I have been here over a week now, and I miss you very much, and I miss the fresh air and the fresh faces of all those people I so hated on the Tube and the fresh things that happened every hour of every day if only I could have seen them -- their freshness, I mean. The thing I miss most is fresh light. I can't live without light. Artificial light, all the lines lie, it almost makes you long for darkness.
I haven't told you how I tried to escape. I thought about it all night, I couldn't sleep, it was so stuffy, and my tummy's all wrong (he tries his best to cook, but it's hopeless). I pretended something was wrong with the bed, and then I just turned and ran. But I couldn't get the door shut to lock him in and he caught me in the other cellar. I could see daylight through a keyhole.
He thinks of everything. He padlocks the door open. It was worth it. One keyholeful of light in seven days. He foresaw I would try and get out and lock him in.
Then I treated him for three days with a view of my back and my sulky face. I fasted. I slept. When I was sure he wouldn't come in I got up and danced about a bit, and read the art books and drank water. But I didn't touch his food.
And I brought him to terms. His condition was six weeks. A week ago six hours would have been too much. I cried. Brought him down to four weeks. I'm not less horrified at being with him. I've grown to know every inch of this foul little crypt, it's beginning to grow on me like those coats of stones on the worms in rivers. But the four weeks seem less important.
I don't seem to have any energy, any will, I'm constipated in all ways.

He makes me change, he makes me want to dance round him, bewilder him, dazzle him, dumbfound him. He's so slow, so unimaginative, so lifeless. Like zinc white. I see it's a sort of tyranny he has over me. He forces me to be changeable, to act. To show off. The hateful tyranny of weak people. G.P. said it once.
The ordinary man is the curse of civilization.
But he's so ordinary that he's extraordinary.
He takes photographs. He wants to take a "portrait" of me.
Then there were his butterflies, which I suppose were rather beautiful. Yes, rather beautifully arranged, with their poor little wings stretched out all at the same angle. And I felt for them, poor dead butterflies, my fellow-victims. The ones he was proudest of were what he called aberrations!
Downstairs he let me watch him make tea (in the outer cellar), and something ridiculous he said made me laugh -- or want to laugh.
Terrible.
I suddenly realized that I was going mad too, that he was wickedly wickedly cunning. Of course he doesn't mind what I say about him. That I break his miserable china duck. Because suddenly he has me (it's mad, he _kidnapped_ me) laughing at him and pouring out his tea, as if I'm his best girlfriend.
I swore at him. I was my mother's daughter. A bitch.
There it is, Minny. I wish you were here and we could talk in the dark. If I could just talk to someone for a few minutes. Someone I love. I make it sound brighter so much brighter than it is.
I think and think down here. I understand things I haven't really thought about before.
Two things. M. I've never really thought of M objectively before, as another person. She's always been my mother I've hated or been ashamed of. Yet of all the lame ducks I've met or heard of, she's the lamest. I've _never_ given her enough sympathy. I haven't given her this last year (since I left home) one half of the consideration I've given the beastly creature upstairs just this last week. I feel that I could overwhelm her with love now. Because I haven't felt so sorry for her for years. I've always excused myself -- I've said, I'm kind and tolerant with everyone else, she's the one person I can't be like that with, and there has to be an exception to the general rule. So it doesn't matter. But of course that's wrong. She's the last person that should be an exception to the general rule.
Minny and I have so often despised D for putting up with her. We ought to go down on our knees to him.
The other thing I think about is G.P.
When I first met him I told everyone how marvellous he was. Then a reaction set in, I thought I was getting a silly schoolgirl hero-pash on him, and the other thing began to happen. It was all too emotional.
Because he's changed me more than anything or anybody. More than London, more than the Slade.
It's not just that he's seen so much more life. Had so much more artistic experience. And is known. But he says exactly what he thinks, and he always makes _me_ think. That's the big thing. He makes me question myself. How many times have I disagreed with him? And then a week later with someone else I find I'm arguing as he would argue. Judging people by his standards.
He's chipped off all (well, some of, anyway) my silliness, my stupid fussy frilly ideas about life and art, and modern art. My feyness. I've never been the same since he told me how he hated fey women. I even learnt the word from him.

Gabriela Alama

John Fowles
 

Ma bantuia. Ma tinea treaz noaptea, ma facea sa uit ce faceam in timpul zilei. Am stat incontinuu la C. A incetat sa mai fie un vis, a inceput sa fie ceea ce ma prefaceam ca urma cu adevarat sa se intample (desigur, stiam ca doar ma prefaceam) asa ca m-am gandit la cai si mijloace – la toate lucururile pe ar fi trebuit sa le aranjez si la care sa ma gandesc si cum as face-o si asa mai departe. Ma gandeam, nu as putea niciodata sa o cunosc in modul obisnuit, dar daca ar fi cu mine, ar vedea partile mele bune, ar intelege. Era intotdeauna gandul ca ea va intelege.
Puterea. A devenit asa de reala.
Stiu ca bomba cu Hidrogen e un lucru gresit. Dar si a fi atat de slab pare gresit acum.
As vrea sa stiu judo. Sa il fac sa planga dupa indurare.
Camera asta inchisa e atat de sufocanta, peretii ma strang, il ascult in timp ce scriu, gandurile pe care le am sunt ca niste desene proaste. Trebuie rupte imediat.
Incearca incearca incearca sa scapi.
Doar la asta ma gandesc.

Un lucru ciudat. Ma fascineaza. Simt cel mai adanc dispret si ura pentru el, nu suport camera asta, cu totii sigur sunt groaznic de ingrijorati. Pot sa le simt ingrijorarea.
Cum poate sa ma iubeasca? Cum poti sa iubesti pe cineva pe care nu il cunosti?
Vrea cu disperarea sa imi faca pe plac. Dar asa sunt probabil oamenii nebuni. Nu sunt nebuni in mod voit, trebuie sa fie intr-un fel, la fel de socati ca si ceilalti cand intr-un final, fac ceva groaznic.
Doar in ultimele zile am putut vorbi asa despre el. Tot drumul pana aici, in duba, a fost un cosmar. Sa vreau sa imi fie rau si teama ca ma voi ineca cu calusul la gura.Si apoi mi-a fost rau. Gandul ca voi fi tarata in vreun tufis si violata si omorata. Eram sigura ca asta urma cand a oprit duba, cred ca de-asta mi-a fost rau. Nu doar din cauza cloroformului scarbos. (Imi aduceam aminte incontinuu de povestile sinistre de dormitor comun ale lui Penny Lester, despre cum mama ei a supravietuit rapirii de catre japonezi, imi tot spuneam “nu opune rezistenta, nu te impotrivi”. Si apoi altcineva de la L. a spus ca e nevoie de doi barbati ca sa te violeze. Fermeile care se lasa violate de un barbat, vor sa fie violate.) Stiu acum ca nu ar fi asa. Ar folosi cloroform din nou, sau altceva. Dar, in prima noapte, era vorba doar de “nu te impotrivi”
Eram recunoscatoare ca traiesc. Sunt groaznic de lasa, nu vreau sa mor, iubesc viata cu atat de multa pasiune, nu am stiut niciodata cat de mult vreau sa traiesc. Daca scap de aici, nu voi mai fi niciodata la fel. Nu imi pasa ce face. Cata vreme traiesc. E vorba de toate lucrurile nespus de josnice pe care le-ar putea face.
Am cautat peste tot o arma, dar nu e nimic de folos, chiar daca as avea puterea sau priceperea. Pun un scaun in fata usii de fier in fiecare noapte, astfel incat sa stiu cel putin daca incearca sa intre fara sa il aud.

Linistea, m-am mai obisnuit putin cu ea acum. Dar e groaznica. Niciodata, nici cel mai mic sunet in jur. Ma face sa ma simt de parca as astepta mereu.
In viata. In viata asa cum moartea e in viata.
In fiecare noapte fac ceva ce nu am mai facut de ani de zile. Stau intinsa si ma rog. Nu ingenunchez, stiu ca Dumnezeu ii dispretuieste pe cei care ingenuncheaza. Stau intinsa si il rog sa ii aline pe M, pe T si pe Minny, si pe Caroline, care trebuie sa se simta atat de vinovata, si pe toti ceilalti, chiar si pe cei carora le-ar face bine sa sufere pentru mine (sau pentru oricine altcineva). Ca Piers si Antoinette. Il rog sa il ajute pe mizerabilul sub puterea caruia ma aflu. Il rog sa ma ajute pe mine. Sa nu permita sa fiu violata sau abuzata si omorata.
Ii cer lumina. La propriu. Lumina zilei.
Nu suport intunericul total. Mi-a cumparat veioze. Adorm cu una stralucind langa mine acum. Inainte lasam lumina aprinsa.
Trezitul e cel mai rau. Ma trezesc si, pentru un moment, cred ca sunt acasa sau la C. Apoi, imi dau seama.
Nu stiu daca cred ca in Dumnezeu. M-am rugat furioasa la el cand eram in duba, cand credeam ca voi muri (asta e o dovada impotriva, ar spune G.P.). Dar rugaciunea face lucrurile mai usoare.
Totul e distrus. Nu ma pot concentra. M-am gandit la atatea lucruri, si acum nu imi mai vine niciunul in minte.
Dar ma ajuta sa ma calmez. Iluzia, oricum. Ca atunci cand calculezi cati bani ai cheltuit. Si cati ti-au mai ramas.
E dupa-amiaza. Ar trebui sa fiu la ora de natura. Mai merge lumea? Mai straluceste soarele? Noaptea trecuta ma gandeam, sunt moarta. Asta e moartea. Asta e iadul. Nu mai sunt alti oameni in iad. Sau doar unul singur, ca el. Diavolul nu e diabolic si mai degraba ispititor, ci ca el.
L-am desenat azi dimineata. Am vrut sa surprind fata lui, sa explic asta. Dar nu era un desen bun, si el l-a vrut. A spus ca ar plati 2000 de guinee pt el. E nebun.
Eu sunt. Eu sunt nebunia lui.
Ani de zile a cautat ceva in care sa isi puna nebunia. Si m-a gasit pe mine.
Nu pot sa scriu intr-un vid ca acesta. Nimanui. Cand desenez, imi imaginez mereu pe cineva ca GP langa mine.
Toti parintii ar trebui sa fie ca ai nostri, pentru ca surorile sa devina cu adevarat surori. Ar fi nevoite sa fie una pentru cealalta ce suntem eu si M.
Draga Minny.
Sunt aici de mai mult de o saptamana si imi e foarte dor de tine, si imi e dor de aerul proaspat si de fetele proaspete ale oamenilor pe care asta de mult ii detestam in metrou, si de lucrurile proaspete care se intamplau in fiecare ora si in fiecare zi- daca as fi putut sa le vad- prospetimea lor adica. Lucrul care imi lipseste cel mai mult e lumina naturala. Nu pot sa traiesc fara lumina. In lumina artificiala, toate liniile mint, aproape ca te face sa tanjesti dupa intuneric.
Nu ti-am spus cum am incercat sa evadez, M-am gandit la asta toat noaptea, nu puteam sa dorm, aerul era atat de inchis, si stomacul meu e dat peste cap. (incearca din rasputeri sa gateasca, dar e fara speranta). M-am prefacut ca e ceva in neregula cu patul si apoi m-am intors si am fugit.Dar nu am reusit sa incui usa ca sa il inchid inauntru si m-a prins in cealalta pivnita. Am putut sa vad lumina zilei printr-o gaura a cheii.
Se gandeste la toate. Tine usa deschisa incuiata cu un lacat???. A meritat. O gaura a cheii de lumina in 7 zile. A prevazut ca voi incerca sa ies si sa il incui inauntru.
Dupa aceea l-am tratat timp de trei zile cu spatele si cu o fata mohorata. Am postit. Am dormit. Cand eram sigura ca nu va intra inauntru ma ridicam si ma miscam putin, citeam cartile de arta si beam apa. Dar nu m-am atins de mancare.
Si am ajuns la o intelegere cu el. Conditia lui era 6 saptamani. Acum o saptamana, sase ore ar fi fost prea mult. Am plans. L-am convins pentru 4 saptamani. Nu sunt mai putin speriata de gandul sa stau cu el. Am ajuns sa cunosc fiecare centimetru al acestei cripte mici si scarboase, incepe sa puna stapanire pe mine precum straturile de piatra asupra viermilor din rauri. Dar cele 4 saptamani par mai putin importante.
Se pare ca nu am niciun fel de energie, de vointa, sunt blocata in toate sensurile.

Ma determina sa ma schimb, ma face sa vreau sa dansez in jurul lui, sa il uimesc, sa il ametesc, sa il uluiesc. E atat de incet, de lipsit de imaginatie, de fara viata. Ca albul de zinc. Inteleg ca e un fel de tiranie pe care o are asupra mea. Ma forteaza sa fiu schimbatoare, sa joc teatru. Sa ma dau in spectacol. Odioasa tiranie a oamenilor slabi, a spus GP odata.Omul obisnuit, comun, ordinar este blestemul civilizatiei.
Dar ele e atat de ordinar incat e extraordinar.
Face fotografii. Vrea sa imi faca un “portret”.
Apoi, fluturii lui, care presupun ca erau destul de frumosi. Da, destul de frumos aranjati, cu bietele lor aripi mici intinse in acelasi unghi. Si mi-a fost mila de ei, bietii fluturi fara viata, tovarasii mei de suferinta. Cei de care era cel mai mandru erau ceea ce el numeste aberatii!
La parter m-a lasat sa il privesc cum face ceaiul (in pivnita exterioara) si ceva ridicol ce a spus m-a facut sa rad - sau sa vreau sa rad.
Groaznic.
Mi-am dat seama brusc ca innebunesc si eu, ca e de o rautate vicleana. Bineninteles ca nu il deranjeaza ce spun despre el. Ca ii sparg mizerabila rata de portelan. Pentru ca, dintr-o data (e nebun, m-a rapit), ma are langa el razand si turnand ceaiul, de parca as fi cea mai buna prietena a lui. L-am injurat. Am fost fiica mamei mele. O ticaloasa.
Asta e, Minny. As vrea sa fii aici sa vorbim in intuneric. Daca as putea sa vorbesc cu cineva cateva minute. Cu cineva iubit/drag. Fac sa sune totul mai optimist decat e de fapt.

Ma gandesc incontinuu aici, jos. Inteleg lucruri la care nu m-am gandit cu adevarat pana acum. Doua lucruri. M. Nu m-am gandit niciodata la mama in mod obiectiv, ca la o alta persoana. A fost intotdeauna mama mea pe care am urat-o sau de care mi-a fost rusine. Totusi, dintre toti ratatii pe care i-am intalnit sau de care am auzit, ea este cea mai ratata. Nu i-am acordat niciodata destula intelegere. Nu i-am aratat anul acesta (de cand am plecat de acasa) nici jumatate din consideratia pe care i-am acordat-o fiintei acesteia josnice de la etaj, doar toata saptamana trecuta. Simt ca as putea sa o coplesesc cu iubire acum. Pentru ca nu mi-a parut rau de ea de ani de zile. Intotdeauna m-am justificat - am spus: sunt buna si toleranta cu toti ceilallti, ea este singura persoana cu care nu pot fi astfel, si trebuie sa fie si o exceptie de la regula. Asa ca nu conteaza. Dar bineinteles ca e gresit. Ea este ultima persoana care ar trebui sa fie o exceptie de la regula.
M si cu mine l-a dispretuit pe T atat de des pentru ca a suportat-o. Ar trebui sa ingenunchem in fata lui. Celalalt lucru este G.P. Cand l-am intalnit prima data, am spus tuturor cat de minunat este. Apoi o tulburare a aparut, am crezut ca fac o pasiune de scolarita prostuta pentru el, si apoi celalalt lucru a inceput sa se intample.Era prea emotional.
Pentru ca m-a schimbat mai mult decat orice sau oricine. Mai mult decat Londra, sau Slade.Nu e doar pentru ca a cunoscut atat de multa viata. A avut mult mai multa experienta artistica. Si e cunoscut. Dar spune exact ce gandeste si intotdeauna ma face pe mine sa gandesc. Asta e important. Ma face sa imi pun intrebari. De cate ori nu m-am contrazis cu el? Si peste o saptamana, cu altcineva, ma trezeam argumentand cum ar fi facut-o el. Judecand oamenii dupa standardele lui.
A indepartat toata (in fine, cel putin o parte, oricum) prostia, ideile mele aferate despre viata si arta, despre arta moderna. Superficialitatea mea. Nu am mai fost aceeasi de cand mi-a spus cat uraste femeile superficiale. Chiar si cuvantul l-am invatat de la el.