Anything that consoles is fake.
IRIS MURDOCHThat doesn’t sound like you, you ride every wave. There is one that will drown me
More Iris Murdoch Quotes
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Time, like the sea, unties all knots.
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How huge it is, how empty, this great space for which I have been longing all my life. Still no letters.
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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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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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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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Freedom may be a value in politics, but it is not a value in morals.
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Love is the extremely difficult realization that something other than oneself is real.
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The theatre is certainly a place for learning about the brevity of human glory: oh all those wonderful glittering absolutely vanished pantomime! Now I shall abjure magic and become a hermit : put myself in a situation where I can honestly say that I have nothing else to do but to learn to be good.
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One of the secrets of a happy life is continous small treats.
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Our actions are like ships which we may watch set out to sea, and not know when or with what cargo they will return to port.
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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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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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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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Emotions really exist at the bottom of the personality or at the top. in the middle they are acted. This is why all the world is a stage.
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Falling out of love is chiefly a matter of forgetting how charming someone is.
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I feel I’m at the end of something – everything is going to be different – and terrible.
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I’ve felt as if I didn’t exist, as if I were invisible, miles away from the world, miles away. You can’t imagine how much alone I’ve been all my life.
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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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Every book is the wreck of a perfect idea.
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Every artist is an unhappy lover. And unhappy lovers want to tell their story.
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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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That doesn’t sound like you, you ride every wave. There is one that will drown me
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Between saying and doing, many a pair of shoes is worn out.
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What an extraordinary satisfaction there is in cleaning things! (Does the satisfaction depend on ownership? I suspect so.
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One 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.
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Of course reading and thinking are important but, my God, food is important too.
IRIS MURDOCH