John Fowles’ The French Lieutenant’s Woman is the sort of book that would-be novelists with beer and beards discuss in existential terms.
The woman of the title is Sarah Woodruff, a young English woman enamored of and jilted in 1867 by a Frenchman, whose whore the Lyme Regis locals assume her to be.
Charles Smithson, an English gentleman with enough funds to indulge his scientific avocation and a fiancée who’s the adored only child of a wealth merchant, finds Sarah irresistible.
She’s equally besotted.
After a brutal mating, Charles breaks his engagement and returns to Sarah who he’s recognized as his soulmate.
Fowles interrupts his story periodically to offer commentary on Victorian culture, the history of Dorset’s Lyme Bay, and his own authorial process, even appearing as a character in the story.
When Charles finally finds Sarah, Fowles offers two endings to the story.
One would have been quite enough.
Nothing Fowles reveals about Sarah makes her believable as anything other than the psychological case the local doctor pegs her as. Charles is nothing to write home about either.
If The French Lieutenant’s Woman had been written by anyone other than Fowles it would be called pretentious.
Because Fowles is Fowles, it’s called literary.
The French Lieutenant’s Woman by John Fowles
Little, Brown. © 1969. Book Club Edition. 480 p.
1970 bestseller #2. My grade: B+
© 2018 Linda Gorton Aragoni