There is no beyond, there is only here, the infinitely small, infinitely great and utterly demanding present.
IRIS MURDOCHI felt a deep grief that crouched and stayed still as if it was afraid to move.
More Iris Murdoch Quotes
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Love is the extremely difficult realization that something other than oneself is real.
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We are all prisoner, but the name of our cure is not freedom.
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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.
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This sort of quiet gazing, which was like a feeding of the heart.
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In philosophy if you aren’t moving at a snail’s pace you aren’t moving at all.
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Falling out of love is chiefly a matter of forgetting how charming someone is.
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I feel half faded away like some figure in the background of an old picture.
IRIS MURDOCH -
Coffee, unless it is very good and made by somebody else, is pretty intolerable at any time.
IRIS MURDOCH -
I feel I’m at the end of something – everything is going to be different – and terrible.
IRIS MURDOCH -
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.
IRIS MURDOCH -
Freedom may be a value in politics, but it is not a value in morals.
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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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I took a deep breath, however, and followed my rule of never speaking frankly to women in moments of emotion. No good ever comes of this.
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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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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.
IRIS MURDOCH