Frederick Clegg, a butterfly collector and an even grayer-than-gray low-level office clerk, admires Miranda, a lively, aspiring art student, from afar. (Actually, more like he’s just stalking her.) He has no chance with her. In fact, he has no chance with anyone. He’s weird, unfit for life, humorless, and lacks any imagination. However, when he suddenly comes into a large sum of money thanks to a lottery win, brand-new opportunities open up for him. The collector decides to add Miranda to his collection.
Time Has Flown By for The Collector
This is actually the first thing you notice. John Fowles’ novel was first published in 1963. It’s hard to say whether the author himself was stuck in the past or if it’s just his utterly characterless protagonist that creates this slightly unsettling feeling. Either way, it’s not immediately obvious that the story takes place at a time when the Beat era and the sexual revolution were in full swing.
In The Collector, these cultural shifts are only faintly present. Clegg narrates the capture of his new acquisition and his activities with her with an odd, emotionless detachment. It’s as though the butterfly collector, this man without qualities, is somehow stuck outside of time, or at least has remained firmly anchored in the past. Everything about him feels like it belongs to decades earlier.
The early 1960s was a time when class distinctions were largely dissolving in the West. The constant emphasis on the class differences between Miranda, an upper-middle-class girl, and her lower-class, socially aspiring captor doesn’t do much to help the novel’s reception decades later… And Fowles’ characters listen to Bach and Mozart instead of The Beatles…
