Coffee, unless it is very good and made by somebody else, is pretty intolerable at any time.
IRIS MURDOCHJealousy 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.
More Iris Murdoch Quotes
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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.
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We live in a fantasy world, a world of illusion. The great task in life is to find reality says Iris Murdoch. But given the state of the world, is it wise?
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Jealousy is the most dreadfully involuntary of all sins.
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Every artist is an unhappy lover. And unhappy lovers want to tell their story.
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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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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 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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We need a moral philosophy which can speak significantly of Freud and Marx and out of which aesthetic and political views can be generated. We need a moral philosophy in which the concept of love, so rarely mentioned now, can once again be made central.
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Time, like the sea, unties all knots.
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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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One should go easy on smashing other people’s lies. Better to concentrate on one’s own.
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I felt a deep grief that crouched and stayed still as if it was afraid to move.
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I feel half faded away like some figure in the background of an old picture.
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Let us not waste love, it is rare enough.
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There is no beyond, there is only here, the infinitely small, infinitely great and utterly demanding present.
IRIS MURDOCH