So we live; a spirit that broods and hovers over the continual death of time, the lost meaning, the unrecaptured moment, the unremembered face, until the final chop that ends all our moments and plunges that spirit back into the void from which it came.
IRIS MURDOCHCoffee, unless it is very good and made by somebody else, is pretty intolerable at any time.
More Iris Murdoch Quotes
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Anything that consoles is fake.
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One of the secrets of a happy life is continous small treats.
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Writing is like getting married. One should never commit oneself until one is amazed at one’s luck.
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However life, unlike art, has an irritating way of bumping and limping on, undoing conversions, casting doubt on solutions, and generally illustrating the impossibility of living happily or virtuously ever after.
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We can only learn to love by loving.
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Every book is the wreck of a perfect idea.
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Coffee, unless it is very good and made by somebody else, is pretty intolerable at any time.
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The absolute yearning of one human body for another particular body and its indifference to substitutes is one of life’s major mysteries.
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Love is the Extremely difficult realization that something other than oneself is real.
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There is no substitute for the comfort supplied by the utterly taken-for-granted relationship.
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Of course this chattering diary is a facade, the literary equivalent of the everyday smiling face which hides the inward ravages of jealousy, remorse, fear and the consciousness of irretrievable moral failure. Yet such pretenses are not only consolations but may even be productive of a little ersatz courage.
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To lose somebody is to lose not only their person but all those modes and manifestations into which their person has flowed outwards; so that in losing a beloved one may find so many things, pictures, poems, melodies, places lost too: Dante, Avignon, a song of Shakespeare’s, the Cornish sea.
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People have disappointed me and deceived me and let me down.
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I think being a woman is like being Irish, Everyone says you’re important and nice, but you take second place all the time.
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Jealousy is perhaps the most involuntary of all strong emotions. It steals consciousness, it lies deeper than thought. It is always there, like a blackness in the eye, it discolours the world.
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Only the very greatest art invigorates without consoling.
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There is no beyond, there is only here, the infinitely small, infinitely great and utterly demanding present.
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Perhaps there was an intimacy which did not need words.
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Every persisting marriage is based on fear’, said Peregrine. ‘Fear is fundamental, you dig down in human nature and what’s at the bottom? Mean spiteful cruel self-regarding fear, whether it makes you to put the foot in it or whether it makes you to cower.
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There is a gulf fixed between those who can sleep and those who cannot. It is one of the greatest divisions of the human race.
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Time, like the sea, unties all knots.
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Love doesn’t think like that. All right, it’s blind as a bat- Bats have radar. Yours doesnt seem to be working.
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Hegel says that Truth is a great word and the thing is greater still. With Dave we never seemed to get past the word.
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Every artist is an unhappy lover. And unhappy lovers want to tell their story.
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Love is the extremely difficult realization that something other than oneself is real.
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People from a planet without flowers would think we must be mad with joy the whole time to have such things about us.
IRIS MURDOCH