I just finished John Fowles novel “A Maggot.” It’s an incredible work, set in 18th century England. It begins with objective narration, giving the impression of a movie camera tracking “a forlorn little group of travellers” riding across the landscape. The narration shifts, taking the form of legal testimony, periodical clippings, omniscient narration. The 20th century author occasionally inserts himself but mostly reserves his thoughts to frame the beginning and end of the book.
A maggot, of course, is the larval form of a fly. But in the 18th century it also meant a dance tune without title and tracking a theme. The novel is the latter. And, perhaps, the former, in some senses. Fowles riffs off his beginning image. This is one of those stories that stayed with me when I put the book down. The characters and story were vivid.
I came to Fowles through John Gardner, another of my favorite writers (“Grendel” is an incredible telling of Beowulf from the monster’s perspective). It didn’t take me long to get hooked.