We defend ourselves with descriptions and tame the world by generalizing.
IRIS MURDOCHIn philosophy if you aren’t moving at a snail’s pace you aren’t moving at all.
More Iris Murdoch Quotes
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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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Coffee, unless it is very good and made by somebody else, is pretty intolerable at any time.
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Love is the Extremely difficult realization that something other than oneself is real.
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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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Writing is like getting married. One should never commit oneself until one is amazed at one’s luck.
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I don’t think I can marry, I’m not fit for it, I’m not real enough. That’s the trouble. I’m a puppet that’s realised what’s wrong with itself and it’s horrible. I’m propped up somewhere all alone, watching the real people go past. I’m propped up crying in a corner.
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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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In philosophy if you aren’t moving at a snail’s pace you aren’t moving at all.
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Youth is a marvelous garment.
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Guilt keeps people imprisoned in themselves.
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We are all prisoner, but the name of our cure is not freedom.
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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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Jealousy is the most dreadfully involuntary of all sins.
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I’ve been so unhappy for years, so unhappy, I don’t understand how a human being can be so unhappy all the time and still be alive.
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Starting a novel is opening a door on a misty landscape; you can still see very little but you can smell the earth and feel the wind blowing.
IRIS MURDOCH