6/19/2023 0 Comments 1954 iris murdochMurdoch was 35 when this was published, and it feels very much like a first book – it’s a lightly comic, picaresque sort of novel in which the protagonist finds himself in complications with locked doors and stolen dogs. Anyway, it is her debut novel, and it concerns a man in his thirties who loafs around London working as a translator and thinking about girls and where to sleep for the night. I’m not sure I am particularly more informed on that point after having read Under the Net, but then again I suspect this might not have been the best example of Murdoch’s style. Why? Because I was curious about what people meant when they called her books “philosophical fiction”. I have been meaning to get to Iris Murdoch for a long time. “… then I had more time for work, or rather for the sort of dreamy unlucrative reflection which is what I enjoy more than anything in the world.”
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