What I needed with all my starved and silent soul was just that particular way of shouting back at the world.
IRIS MURDOCHWhat I needed with all my starved and silent soul was just that particular way of shouting back at the world.
IRIS MURDOCHOf 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 MURDOCHWhat a test that is: more than devotion, admiration, passion. If you long and long for someone’s company you love them.
IRIS MURDOCHBereavement is a darkness impenetrable to the imagination of the unbereaved.
IRIS MURDOCHI’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.
IRIS MURDOCHOf course reading and thinking are important but, my God, food is important too.
IRIS MURDOCHBetween saying and doing, many a pair of shoes is worn out.
IRIS MURDOCHHowever 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 MURDOCHFalling out of love is chiefly a matter of forgetting how charming someone is.
IRIS MURDOCHWe 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.
IRIS MURDOCHThose who hope, by retiring from the world, to earn a holiday from human frailty, in themselves and others, are usually disappointed.
IRIS MURDOCHTo 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 MURDOCHJealousy is the most dreadfully involuntary of all sins.
IRIS MURDOCHPerhaps when distant people on other planets pick up some wavelength of ours all they hear is a continuous scream.
IRIS MURDOCHI just enjoy translating, it’s like opening one’s mouth and hearing someone else’s voice emerge.
IRIS MURDOCHFreedom may be a value in politics, but it is not a value in morals.
IRIS MURDOCH