All novelists should live in two different worlds: a real one and an unreal one.
John FowlesRead
Whatever sympathy I feel towards religions, whatever admiration for some of their adherents, whatever historical or biological necessity I see in them, whatever metaphorical truth, I cannot accept them as credible explanations of reality; and they are incredible to me in proportion to the degree that they require my belief in positive human attributes and intervenient powers in their divinities.
Interpretation
What this quote means
The quote expresses skepticism towards religions, suggesting they are not credible explanations of reality.
John Fowles articulates a critical perspective on religion, indicating that while he may hold some sympathy or admiration for religious individuals or constructs, he fundamentally rejects their claims as valid interpretations of reality. He emphasizes that the more religions require belief in human-like attributes or intervention by divine figures, the less credible they appear to him, positioning this as a philosophical argument against the acceptance of religious dogma.
Themes
ReligionSkepticismBeliefRealityPhilosophy
In practice
Example use cases
In a debate on the role of religion in society, this quote could highlight the importance of questioning established beliefs.
More from John Fowles
All quotes →There are many reasons why novelists write, but they all have one thing in common - a need to create an alternative world.
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I love making, I love doing. I love being to the full, I love everything which is not sitting and watching and copying and dead at heart.
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Do you know that every great thing in the history of art and every beautiful thing in life is actually what you call nasty or has been caused by feelings that you would call nasty? By passion, by love, by hatred, by truth. Do you know that?
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The bowed head, the buried face. She is silent, she will never speak, never forgive, never reach a hand, never leave this frozen present tense. All waits, suspended. Suspended the autumn trees, the autumn sky, anonymous people. A blackbird, poor fool, sings out of season from the willows by the lake. A flight of pigeons over the houses; fragments of freedom, hazard, an anagram made flesh. And somewhere the stinging smell of burning leaves.
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It came to me…that I didn’t want to be anywhere else in the world at that moment, that what I was feeling at that moment justified all I had been through, because all I had been through was my being there. I was experiencing…a new self-acceptance, a sense that I had to be this mind and this body, its vices and its virtues, and that I had no other chance or choice.
John FowlesRead
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