John Fowles, The Magus (Cape, 1966) and The Collecter (Little, Brown, 1963).
In a recent review in the TLS, A.N. Wilson asserts that "popular English fiction of the twentieth century did not have much of a shelf life." He notes that no one reads anymore J.B. Priestley, Angela Thirkell, Warwick Deeping or Dorothy Sayers. He adds that later writers "are crumbling before your eyes, like exhumed bones exposed to ultraviolet." The two examples he mentions are Kingsley Amis and John Fowles.
Sayers retains a following, but nonetheless there's a degree of truth to this. Six years after Fowles' death and, more relevantly, 32 years after his last novel (and 43 after his last truly popular novel) he seems on a gentle but persistent slide downward. Most of the usual late career or posthumous things have been done: the collected nonfiction, the first biography (quite a good one), the journals (two big volumes, snubbed in the UK and ignored in the US). I don't think he was a big letter writer so that's out. There's not much, in other words, to brake the descent. The on-rush of the new is too great.
His reputation will rest on the first three novels: The Collector, The Magus and the French Lieutenant's Woman. Even as all the rest falls away, I think they will last. The first is an expert study of obsession; the second a bildungsroman that will always appeal to emotional adolescents; and the third is simply a good novel although that probably means it has the least chance of these three.
If the larger public has moved on, there is still a devoted core of fans. This became evident after Fowles' second wife, Sarah, decided to part with the vast majority of his library. Surprisingly, no institutional buyer emerged for the entire collection. Charles Cox, an English bookseller previously unknown to me, put together exemplary catalogues of, first, the older material and then the modern books, including Fowles' own titles. There was only one problem: he consistently priced the books too low. The best titles went instantly.
With the first catalogue, I put off ordering anything (it was the market crash of 2008 and I was distracted). With the modern material, I was at least six weeks late and only managed to purchase a couple of scraps, which I have obstinately refused to open. (Collectors are weird.) I wasn't completely disappointed; something about buying books that Fowles had inscribed to his wife struck me as a little too intimate, like buying his underwear. Or so I consoled myself.
A few weeks ago, Cox began emailing lists of the leftovers. I got the first list on Friday but didn't see it until Monday. As usual I was too late, particularly for this:
NORMAN, Francis. Catalogue of Old Books. Number 45[-48, 50-63.] F. Norman, 1968-82. Eighteen catalogues plus one duplicate and a photocopy, wrappers. A number of leaves with slips excised, but generally in fair condition. All but a couple of the catalogues are marked by John Fowles with a view to possible purchases and several bear or contain quite extensive lists of his orders, calculations of total prices &c. In the final number is an a.l.s. from Norman to Fowles, thanking him for a copy of Ourika "in such resplendent dress" and its "very unexpected reference to my bookshop. I know a bookshop is an education for the bookseller, but had not thought of it as such for the customer ..." Also present are two letters to Fowles from a fellow customer reporting first Norman's illness and then his death in April 1983, and a letter from Norman's son on the same occasion: "I know my father valued your friendship ..." Fowles valued Norman too, as his tribute in Ourika amply testifies. He had known him since his Hampstead days in the mid-fifties: "Norman is a bluff, awkward, friendly second-hand bookseller with a mind like a jackdaw's nest and a shop which must rank as one of the dirtiest, most disorganized and lovable in North London" (Journals, I, 383, December 1956). £50
Ah, for those days when there were dirty, disorganized and lovable bookstores on practically every corner. These catalogues would have been a fine souvenir of that lost era, but were snatched up by someone else. Now the relationship between shops and collectors is disappearing, just like the catalogues themselves. Cox's own catalogue here is merely an Internet list, which will be evanescent unless I and others print it out for our collections.
Meanwhile, I will note here that I long ago gave away Allan's Fowles books to my friend Liz. The Magus had a worn jacket and The Collector is common in this issue unless very fine, which this wasn't. Did Allan ever sell a Fowles book? Probably not.
Update: Joe says in the comments that Allan did indeed sell Fowles. Maybe Fowles' wonky mysticism meshed with the San Francisco spirtuality. Anyway, Joe says, Allan sold at least five Fowles books at Valhalla.
"And Richard sold 2. I have sold 13 over the years. Of those 20 total, the first 10 were sold from 1998-2002 and all to dealers. The last 10, all mine, were sold from 2004-2011 and, it appears, were purchased by "real" people.
"Beyond that, I got nuttin’...
"Well, truth be told, I got the start on a meditation about the collectability of Fowles, another about the relationship (or lack thereof) between quality and collectabilty, a third imagining what an ‘84 Charing Cross Road’ of the Internet Age would look like. LOL. Consider yourself spared."
No, no, I want to hear all three!
Question: “Did Allan ever sell a Fowles book?”
Answer: Yes, 5. At least here at Valhalla. And Richard sold 2. I have sold 13 over the years. Of those 20 total, the first 10 were sold from 1998-2002 and all to dealers. The last 10, all mine, were sold from 2004-2011 and, it appears, were purchased by ‘real’ people.
Beyond that, I got nuttin’...
Well, truth be told, I got the start on a meditation about the collectibility of Fowles, another about the relationship (or lack thereof) between quality and collectibilty, a third imagining what an ‘84, Charing Cross Road’ of the Internet Age would look like LOL. Consider yourself spared.
Posted by: Joe Marchione | January 31, 2012 at 03:49 PM
Re your comment on the evanescence of internet lists, there will be a few paper copies of the catalogue currently being emailed to you in instalments - not a full-dress, colour-printed, illustrated affair like the first three, but at least a permanent record of what was there. I agree: it's important.
A.N. Wilson's list of writers is surely an unconscious response to the vagaries of critical opinion rather than a worthwhile assessment of literary merit. Good authors and intelligent readers together transcend the shifts of mere fashion. And he might be suprised to know just how many people do read Angela Thirkell - to say nothing of John Fowles.
Posted by: Charles Cox | February 01, 2012 at 09:14 AM
I have very fond memories of Allan. Back in the late 1990s, I was just learning how to become a bookseller and Allan was one of the first people who gave me useful advice. I had gotten into book collecting as a huge fan of John Fowles and ultimately created the worldwide website on Fowles--and I can say with certainty that I bought several Fowles items from Allan's shop in San Francisco for my inventory.
Allan also was a Fowles fan, and I know at one time had a bit of a collection (which he subsequently dispersed). I greatly enjoyed my visits with Allan when I came to San Francisco; he was not only a very knowledgeable bookseller, but also a kind and generous man.
Posted by: Bob Goosmann | March 29, 2012 at 10:37 AM