Izzy's Reviews > A Maggot

I wrote this review a few years ago. I just moved to a new apartment, and while I rearranged my books in the perfect order, I came across my copy of A Maggot and remembered this, so I shall copy and paste:


JOHN FOWLES: A MAGGOT

My previous experience reading the work of John Fowles is sporadic but rather steady: while taking a “Literature of the Occult” class in college, The Magus was required reading and sometime last winter I made it through The Collector (recommended to me by Maxim magazine, of all things). I never finished the former, as the parts I remember were a little over my head, and was underwhelmed by the latter.

A while ago I was wandering through a thrift shop on 7th Avenue in Park Slope, Brooklyn, and randomly stumbled upon The Maggot. I immediately picked it up because of the author, but was drawn to it for other reasons, as well. It was a heavy hardcover, a former member of the Brooklyn Public Library system. I liked the cover. Featured was a photo of Mr. Fowles, which took up the entire back cover; someone had pressed a gold star sticker near his right hand, which was neatly tucked into a pocket. I liked the title. I liked the alternative usage of the word "maggot." All these things pleased my aesthetic.

I began reading it right away, ignoring the several half-finished books littering my apartment. Though the style was dense and a little too stodgy for my taste, with about half of it consisting of mid-19th century British dialogue that had me reading paragraphs three or four times each, there was a slow-burning core of promise and thrifty use of language that kept me plugging away. I wouldn't say I couldn't put it down; I wouldn't say it amazed me. However, it's one of those books that plant you firmly into the personality of the author, into the way they see and structure. I was aware of how British Fowles is, and of what qualities he found attractive in a woman. His opinions on religion were evident. All these things, and more, weren't spelled out or even necessarily integral parts of the story- they were just present.

I kept reading it; I even skimmed some of it. Usually when reading a book becomes tedious for me, I'll just move on to something else and tell myself I'll finish it later. It smelled of paper soon to turn brittle and weighted me down every day to and from the train. Others glanced at the title curiously. It was covered in a clear protective plastic.

I finished it on a Saturday. It was one of the first warm days. I had gone for a walk in the sun, air, white cement, and my skin and hair had that green, metallic smell from being outside, from being slightly sweaty and then chilly again. My lungs worked easily. I was laid up on the couch, a cat purring warmly against my chest and belly. My legs had the slight tingle of a good, long walk. The windows and doors were all open. I had eaten pineapple and blackberries and Nutella in great, big spoonfuls. I was hurrying to finish this book, killing time. The day had been so perfect, my senses and mind so round and full that I didn't want to ruin it with television. So I finished it, turned the last pages, and the conclusion left me with a vague satisfaction. It was an unclear ending, the kind that you are okay with because the unknowing is fitting and more telling than a neat wrapping up.

So it was finished, and I flipped to the epilogue, which was written directly to the readers from the author, like an explanation, or a letter. He made it clear that the entire novel, which was an amalgamation of a who-done-it, historical fiction, time travel fantasy, religious dissent, romance and political treatise, was crawling toward one purpose only; this purpose was the birth of Ann Lee.

All these things, an entire complex and at times convoluted plot, and several characters...they all led to this. There were no hints, none, except for mentions of Quakerism. Ann Lee was the founder of religious sect known as the Shakers, who originated in England and quickly immigrated to America to escape persecution. A severe group, they were originally an offshoot of the Quakers and claimed a strict adherence to chastity as the main difference between their beliefs and other similar Protestant faiths. The first Shaker settlement in America was founded outside Albany, NY in the 1770's. In fact, this original community still stands within a couple of miles of my parents' house. In fact, I completed an internship at the Shaker Heritage Society at this very site while in college. I picnicked at Ann Lee Pond; I drove down paths entitled North Family Road and Watervliet-Shaker Road. Their presence in my life was extremely prevalent.

The Shakers believed fervently in celibacy. They relied mainly on conversion to gain new members, and never exceeded over 6,000 members due to the difficulty of convincing people not to succumb to the temptations of the flesh. At times, it was difficult to control the natural proclivities of their members, especially the young ones (many of which were adopted orphans, without a choice in the matter). While at the Heritage Society, I read countless accounts of Shaker Girls Gone Wild, running half-dressed, bonnets askance, through the primitive streets, imbibing whiskey and threatening the piety of the town's menfolk.

The Shakers were largely self-sufficient. They operated large farms and made most of their own clothing, soap, furniture, etc. I spent many hours showing small children how to comb and card wool, how to use a drop spindle, how to knit. I learned how to knit through this influence, directly; it has been a hobby of mine ever since that time. It has enabled me to make things for many people, people I love. In addition, their products were of such quality that there was high demand for them in town. Especially things that involved intricate handiwork; the Shaker women were famous for their luxury embroidered goods. Coincidentally, this was something they had little use for themselves. Their honey, brooms, herbs, seeds, and chairs were also famed and bought by many.

The Shakers were also extremely innovative. They made vast improvements upon already existing items and ideas. I won't delve deeper into any of this, save to say that it is generally believed that their sacrifice of carnality enabled them to expend time and energy into all the aforementioned innovations, and into quality craftsmanship.

This series of events may seem inconsequential; perhaps they are. What is evident to me after reading this work is the nature of coincidence and the nagging belief that the manipulation of energy, of being able to force things to you, away from you, based on what you give and take, is possible. Did all this happen because I have been rethinking my behavior lately? Or was it the other way around?

In the epilogue, John Fowles mentions how the story came to him as if by accident or coincidence. He came into possession, by chance, of a replica of a drawing: a portrait of a woman. The woman wasn't particularly beautiful, but her image, through someone else's perspective, drew him in and inspired him. She may have been a prostitute. She was the basis for one of the main characters, Rebecca Lee, the mother of Ann Lee. The cover of my copy of the book is this original portrait, which pleases me immensely. Interestingly, Fowles claims he did little research and made most of the story up. Chance, coincidence, inspiration. I wonder what he was projecting to receive such bounty. And it's a personal bounty; it seems like he was striving to please only himself with this work. This exact mental path is the one that usually yields extraordinary results in art and literature.