People from a planet without flowers would think we must be mad with joy the whole time to have such things about us.
IRIS MURDOCHTime, like the sea, unties all knots.
More Iris Murdoch Quotes
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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.
IRIS MURDOCH -
Love is the Extremely difficult realization that something other than oneself is real.
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White magic is black magic. A less than perfect meddling in the spiritual world can breed monsters for other people, and demons used for good can hang around and make mischief afterwards.
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What a test that is: more than devotion, admiration, passion. If you long and long for someone’s company you love them.
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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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One should go easy on smashing other people’s lies. Better to concentrate on one’s own.
IRIS MURDOCH -
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.
IRIS MURDOCH -
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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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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Only take someone’s hand in a certain way, even look into their eyes in a certain way, and the world is changed forever.
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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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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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The bicycle is the most civilized conveyance known to man. Other forms of transport grow daily more nightmarish. Only the bicycle remains pure in heart.
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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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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.
IRIS MURDOCH