People from a planet without flowers would think we must be mad with joy the whole time to have such things about us.
IRIS MURDOCHOne of the secrets of a happy life is continuous small treats, and if some of these can be inexpensive and quickly procured so much the better.
More Iris Murdoch Quotes
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One should go easy on smashing other people’s lies. Better to concentrate on one’s own.
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Youth is a marvelous garment.
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People have obsessions and fears and passions which they don’t admit to. I think every character is interesting and has extremes. It’s the novelist privilege to see how odd everyone is.
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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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As we live our precarious lives on the brink of the void, constantly coming closer to a state of nonbeing, we are all too often aware of our fragitlity.
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What I needed with all my starved and silent soul was just that particular way of shouting back at the world.
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Those who hope, by retiring from the world, to earn a holiday from human frailty, in themselves and others, are usually disappointed.
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Let us not waste love, it is rare enough.
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The most essential and fundamental aspect of culture is the study of literature, since this is an education in how to picture and understand human situations.
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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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Coffee, unless it is very good and made by somebody else, is pretty intolerable at any time.
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I have nobody in the world. I’ll kill myself. That’s best. Everyone will say, It’s for the best that she killed herself, she’s better off dead. I hate myself so much I could spend hours and hours just screaming with hatred and with the pain of it, oh the pain of it.
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Love is the extremely difficult realization that something other than oneself is real.
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We are all the judges and the judged, victims of the casual malice and fantasy of others, and ready sources of fantasy and malice in our turn. And if we are sometimes accused of sins of which we are innocent, are there not also other sins of which we are guilty and of which the world knows nothing?
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Only the very greatest art invigorates without consoling.
IRIS MURDOCH






