Iris Murdoch (1919–1999)
Author of The Sea, the Sea
About the Author
Iris Murdoch was one of the twentieth century's most prominent novelists, winner of the Booker Prize for The Sea. She died in 1999. (Publisher Provided) Iris Murdoch was born in Dublin, Ireland on July 15, 1919. She was educated at Badminton School in Bristol and Oxford University, where she read show more classics, ancient history, and philosophy. After several government jobs, she returned to academic life, studying philosophy at Newnham College, Cambridge. In 1948, she became a fellow and tutor at St. Anne's College, Oxford. She also taught at the Royal College of Art in London. A professional philosopher, she began writing novels as a hobby, but quickly established herself as a genuine literary talent. She wrote over 25 novels during her lifetime including Under the Net, A Severed Head, The Unicorn, and Of the Nice and the Good. She won several awards including the James Tait Black Memorial Prize for The Black Prince in 1973 and the Booker Prize for The Sea, The Sea in 1978. She died on February 8, 1999 at the age of 79. (Bowker Author Biography) show less
Image credit: © Steve Pyke 1990 (use of image requires permission from Steve Pyke)
Works by Iris Murdoch
The Fire and the Sun: Why Plato Banished the Artists. Based upon the Romanes Lecture (Oxford Paperbacks) (1977) 123 copies, 2 reviews
The Sea, the Sea; A Severed Head: Introduction by Sarah Churchwell (Everyman's Library Contemporary Classics Series) (2016) 47 copies, 2 reviews
The Novels of Iris Murdoch Volume Two: The Flight from the Enchanter, The Red and the Green, and The Time of the Angels (2018) 10 copies
The Novels of Iris Murdoch Volume One: Henry and Cato, The Italian Girl, and The Philosopher's Pupil (2018) 10 copies
The Novels of Iris Murdoch Volume Three: A Word Child, An Unofficial Rose, and Bruno's Dream (2018) 8 copies
O Sino 4 copies
The Sea, The Sea: . 3 copies
Taevane ja maine armastus 1 copy
Kesik Bir Baş 1 copy
O Unicórnio; A Moça Italiana 1 copy
Ο Μαύρος Πρίγκηπας 1 copy
Przypadkowy cz¿owiek 1 copy
Een filosofie van de liefde 1 copy
Hver tar sin 1 copy
[Make a joyful noise Vol. 1] 1 copy
Tilfælghedens spil 1 copy
[Notebook : 34 pages occupied with lists of words in Russian with their English translations] 1 copy
[Make a joyful noise Vol. 2] 1 copy
Çan 1 copy
Murdoch, Iris Archive 1 copy
Against Dryness 1 copy
Os Olhos da Aranha Livro 1 1 copy
Сочинения в 3-Х томах 1 copy
Associated Works
Wise Women: Over Two Thousand Years of Spiritual Writing by Women (1996) — Contributor — 212 copies, 1 review
Plato's Republic: Critical Essays (Critical Essays on the Classics Series) (1997) — Contributor — 36 copies
Die englische Literatur 10 in Text und Darstellung. 20. Jahrhundert 2. (2001) — Contributor — 6 copies
Tagged
Common Knowledge
- Canonical name
- Murdoch, Iris
- Legal name
- Murdoch, Dame Jean Iris
- Other names
- Murdoch, Jean Iris
- Birthdate
- 1919-07-15
- Date of death
- 1999-02-08
- Burial location
- Ashes scattered in the garden of Oxford Crematorium
- Gender
- female
- Nationality
- Ireland
- Birthplace
- Dublin, Ireland
- Place of death
- Oxfordshire, England, UK
- Cause of death
- Alzheimer's disease
- Places of residence
- Dublin, Ireland
London, England, UK
Oxford, Oxfordshire, England, UK - Education
- Oxford University (BA|1942|Somerville College)
University of Cambridge (Newnham College)
Badminton School, Bristol, Gloucestershire, England, UK - Occupations
- novelist
philosopher
professor - Relationships
- Bayley, John (husband)
- Organizations
- American Academy of Arts and Letters (Foreign Honorary, Literature | 1975)
American Academy of Arts and Sciences (Foreign Honorary Member | 1982)
St Anne's College, Oxford University - Awards and honors
- Royal Society of Literature Companion of Literature (1987)
Dame Commander, Most Excellent Order of the British Empire (1987)
Golden PEN Award (1997)
James Tait Black Memorial Prize (1973)
Booker Prize (1978)
Foreign Honorary Member, American Academy of Arts & Sciences (1982) (show all 9)
Whitbread Literary Award for Fiction (1974)
Commander, Most Excellent Order of the British Empire (1976)
National Arts Clubs (New York) Medal of Honor for Literature (1990) - Agent
- Ed Victor
- Short biography
- Iris Murdoch was born in Dublin, Ireland, the only child of an Anglo-Irish family. When she was a baby, the family moved to London, where her father worked as a civil servant. She attended the Badminton School as a boarder from 1932 to 1938. In 1938, she enrolled at Oxford University, where she read Classics. She graduated with a First Class Honors degree in 1942 and got a job with the Treasury. In 1944, she joined the United Nations Relief and Rehabilitation Administration (UNRRA), working in Brussels, Innsbruck, and Graz for two years. She then returned to her studies and became a postgraduate at Cambridge University. In 1948, she became a fellow of St Anne's College, Oxford, where she taught philosophy until 1963. In 1956, she married John Bayley, a literary critic, novelist, and English professor at Oxford. She published her debut novel, Under the Net, in 1954 and went on to produce 25 more novels and additional acclaimed works of philosophy, poetry and drama. She was elected a Foreign Honorary Member of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences in 1982, and named a Dame Commander of Order of the British Empire in 1987. She was diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease in 1997 and died two years later.
Members
Discussions
Group Read, June 2022: The Sea, the Sea in 1001 Books to read before you die (July 2022)
Group Read, July 2018: Under The Net in 1001 Books to read before you die (July 2018)
The Bell in Iris Murdoch readers (February 2018)
Musing on Murdoch in General in Iris Murdoch readers (October 2017)
The Nice and the Good in Iris Murdoch readers (February 2017)
The Italian Girl in Iris Murdoch readers (November 2015)
The Sea, the Sea in Iris Murdoch readers (September 2015)
The Sandcastle in Iris Murdoch readers (January 2015)
The Green Knight in Iris Murdoch readers (May 2014)
The Unicorn in Iris Murdoch readers (February 2014)
***Group Read, October 2013: The Bell by Iris Murdoch in 1001 Books to read before you die (October 2013)
The Book and the Brotherhood in Iris Murdoch readers (October 2013)
A Severed Head in Iris Murdoch readers (May 2013)
The Black Prince in Iris Murdoch readers (May 2013)
The Philosopher's Pupil in Iris Murdoch readers (April 2013)
The Good Apprentice in Iris Murdoch readers (March 2013)
Something Special in Iris Murdoch readers (March 2013)
Henry and Cato in Iris Murdoch readers (February 2013)
A Word Child in Iris Murdoch readers (February 2013)
Bruno's Dream in Iris Murdoch readers (February 2013)
An Unofficial Rose in Iris Murdoch readers (February 2013)
Henry Cato in Iris Murdoch readers (January 2013)
Murdoch & Mayhem in 75 Books Challenge for 2012 (December 2012)
Reviews
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This was nutty, in a very good way—a combination historical novel about the week leading up to the Irish Easter Rebellion in 1916/extremely thwarted bedroom farce, laced through with a big dose of dark Catholic satire: Everyone in it wants to subject themselves to a stern master of some kind, no one gets laid, there is a lot of last-minute martyrdom, and the character who is the most sympathetic (and who is one of the few who makes out well in the end) is the biggest coward. If that sounds show more mean or tedious, though, it's not. But scathing, yeah, tempered with these absolutely stunning descriptions of the land, the sea, and the houses of Dublin in 1916. Absolutely worth a read, but whatever you might expect from it, it's probably not. show less
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Many many thoughts jumbling around in my head as I finish Iris Murdoch's The Good Apprentice. Not the least of which is that I am beginning to 'get' Iris Murdoch and I can see how this could well turn into awe a few more books down the road. You could make a case that she is writing more or less the same book over and over again, but that isn't it. More like she is examining a few of the most important questions - the nature of good and evil and our variety (and also similarity) of human show more responses to emergency situations that arise. How we make things up to suit ourselves, create stories and make things fit, how we rationalize our lying, shrug off our cowardice..... Human behavior as IM sees it, is such a complex interweaving of events and character, that it can be examined endlessly. No coincidence that the two most important animal images in this novel are spiders and a mouse. Something so tiny can alter everything. One careless action can change a life irrevocably is the idea from which the story of The Good Apprentice flows. Edward gives a friend a hallucinogenic, and then, thinking the friend is safely asleep, leaves the room (locked) to visit someone. When he returns the friend has jumped out the window and is dead. Family members and friends gather around, but Edward is lost in his grief. He loved his friend deeply and is in a state of shock and paralysis. How is he to go on and have a life? And it is a good question.
As often is the case in a Murdoch book, the relationships between people are labyrinthine, Edward has a stepfather he loves as a father, and a step-brother ditto. His stepfather is having an affair with his aunt who is married to a brilliant psychotherapist..... Edward's accident pushes any number of static situations (the affair being one of them) into motion. Edward receives an invitation to visit Seegard, his real father's home on the coast, up in the fens, hoping that getting to know his real father might lead to his salvation he goes and finds himself in an almost unreal and definitely uncanny environment. As always with Murdoch, there is a tug of war between rationality and the mystical, a tension I happen to believe is a critical part of the human .... geography?..... both our story-making and our ability to act logically matter, make us who and what we are. Self awareness is everything. Edward's brother Stuart is one of the most fascinating characters Murdoch has put forward yet - a man who has decided to detach himself in every possible way from both story-making and logic in an effort to be truly good. Having done this he becomes a kind of palimpsest for everyone to write their own fictions upon, a blank, a threat, frightening and fascinating. It's breathtaking. As always with Murdoch, there are maddening interactions where people talk at complete cross-purposes, not listening, caught up in their own fictions, but of course, that is just how we all are. Murdoch reminds us of this both fiercely and compassionately. ****1/2 show less
As often is the case in a Murdoch book, the relationships between people are labyrinthine, Edward has a stepfather he loves as a father, and a step-brother ditto. His stepfather is having an affair with his aunt who is married to a brilliant psychotherapist..... Edward's accident pushes any number of static situations (the affair being one of them) into motion. Edward receives an invitation to visit Seegard, his real father's home on the coast, up in the fens, hoping that getting to know his real father might lead to his salvation he goes and finds himself in an almost unreal and definitely uncanny environment. As always with Murdoch, there is a tug of war between rationality and the mystical, a tension I happen to believe is a critical part of the human .... geography?..... both our story-making and our ability to act logically matter, make us who and what we are. Self awareness is everything. Edward's brother Stuart is one of the most fascinating characters Murdoch has put forward yet - a man who has decided to detach himself in every possible way from both story-making and logic in an effort to be truly good. Having done this he becomes a kind of palimpsest for everyone to write their own fictions upon, a blank, a threat, frightening and fascinating. It's breathtaking. As always with Murdoch, there are maddening interactions where people talk at complete cross-purposes, not listening, caught up in their own fictions, but of course, that is just how we all are. Murdoch reminds us of this both fiercely and compassionately. ****1/2 show less
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I think this is Irish Murdoch's best novel, and its not so much unreliable as reliably deluded narrator, retired theatre director Charles Arrowby, the most perfect of her self-sabotaging middle-aged male protagonists. Arrowby casts himself as Prospero in his seaside retreat (characters enter and exit Shruff End the way they do a stage), but unlike in the theatre, his power over other people is limited. He's a wizard whose staff has been broken; as his cousin James, the mystic who is also the show more only character in touch with reality, says to him of the idolised, idealised first love whom he takes captive, "she does not coincide with your dream figure. You were not able to transform her." Charles is a visionary — his hallucination of the sea monster opens our eyes, if not his, to the untrustworthiness of his vision — and his visions of himself and his friends and lovers are all that is real to him. But James again, of Charles' elaborate self-serving narrative of himself and Hartley: "you've made it into a story, and stories are false." Life isn't theatre, subject to the unifying vision of the director; it isn't a story written by an all-seeing third-person. Puppetteering has its limits, is actually rather ridiculous when practised on the stage of life. One of the many people abused and betrayed by Charles in the course of his lifelong rampage of egotism, his friend Peregrine, sums up his status as failed conjuror, ironically echoing the monster motif:
2. The passive construction, with the twilight (Arrowby's favourite kind of light, one suspects) foregrounded, although the object rather than the subject.
3. Adjective order upending (size would normally come first), which combined with the use of "fierce" somehow gives the moon agency, renders it like a person or a malevolent sprite. It's like Charles is judging the moon, like he judges, in his frustrated paternalism, everyone. (As the vengeful Rosina sticks it to him, "you say you 'always wanted a son'. That's just a sentimental lie, you didn't want trouble, you didn't want to know. You never put yourself in a situation where you could have a REAL son. Your sons are fantasies, they're easier to deal with.")
4. Now the sparkling heart of the image, the "metallic brilliant" and the stunning verbs "animating" and "entertaining". The sky is like a theatre, an arena for the narrator's monstrous ego to cavort in.
5. The delicious "unillumined" — and then back to earth in that last dull, contemptuous sentence with its unappealing "thick fuzzy brown".
I adore the absurd comedy of Charles' food diaries ("for dinner I had an egg poached in hot scrambled egg, then the coley braised with onions and lightly dusted with curry powder, and served with a little tomato ketchup and mustard. Then a heavenly rice pudding") and his dicta on the same subject ("I am not a great friend of your peach, but I suspect the apricot is the king of fruit.") I love Murdoch's rich compulsive irony, her itching desire to pull the rug out from under characters and reader alike, and — the mark of many a great wrier, in my opinion — her sadism, how unflinchingly she watches these people careen around her carousel plots, bruising and breaking themselves almost beyond endurance. I love this clever, funny, and beautiful novel from the bottom of my heart. show less
Your work wasn't any bloody good, it was just a pack of pretentious tricks, as everyone can see now that they aren't mesmerised any more, so the glitter's fading fast and you'll find yourself alone and you won't even be a monster in anybody's mind any more.Mudoch's exquisite style is ever-present, in her iridescent, Protean descriptions of air, land, and especially sea; in her habit of evoking the passing of time (always from the perspective of her mad creation) through successive actions, like stage directions setting the pace of a play; in her facility with stacked adjectives and virtuosic variation of English adjective order: "the wet shorn moon-grey lawn" and "the gentle crafty lapping of the calm sea against the yellow rocks". She's an intensely visual writer (aptly for her name), especially in this novel of visions, so we get scalp-tingling sentences like "the sun was descending through a blue celebration of cloudless light" and motley adjective combos like "big lazy chryselephantine clouds that loafed around over the water exuding light". I'm going to quote a passage and try to explain why I think it's utterly brilliant:
There was no fog now. Twilight had been overtaken by darkness, and a bright fierce little moon was shining, dimming the stars and pouring metallic brilliance onto the sea and animating the land with the ghostly intent presences of quiet rocks and trees. The sky was a clear blackish-blue, entertaining the abundant light of the moon but unillumined by it. The earth and its objects were a thick fuzzy brown.1. That peremptory first sentence. Five words, five syllables. A declaration.
2. The passive construction, with the twilight (Arrowby's favourite kind of light, one suspects) foregrounded, although the object rather than the subject.
3. Adjective order upending (size would normally come first), which combined with the use of "fierce" somehow gives the moon agency, renders it like a person or a malevolent sprite. It's like Charles is judging the moon, like he judges, in his frustrated paternalism, everyone. (As the vengeful Rosina sticks it to him, "you say you 'always wanted a son'. That's just a sentimental lie, you didn't want trouble, you didn't want to know. You never put yourself in a situation where you could have a REAL son. Your sons are fantasies, they're easier to deal with.")
4. Now the sparkling heart of the image, the "metallic brilliant" and the stunning verbs "animating" and "entertaining". The sky is like a theatre, an arena for the narrator's monstrous ego to cavort in.
5. The delicious "unillumined" — and then back to earth in that last dull, contemptuous sentence with its unappealing "thick fuzzy brown".
I adore the absurd comedy of Charles' food diaries ("for dinner I had an egg poached in hot scrambled egg, then the coley braised with onions and lightly dusted with curry powder, and served with a little tomato ketchup and mustard. Then a heavenly rice pudding") and his dicta on the same subject ("I am not a great friend of your peach, but I suspect the apricot is the king of fruit.") I love Murdoch's rich compulsive irony, her itching desire to pull the rug out from under characters and reader alike, and — the mark of many a great wrier, in my opinion — her sadism, how unflinchingly she watches these people careen around her carousel plots, bruising and breaking themselves almost beyond endurance. I love this clever, funny, and beautiful novel from the bottom of my heart. show less
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Halfway through this book I discovered a receipt which suggested that it had been originally purchased in 1981 at Heathrow Airport for one pound ninety. No real point to make about that, just thought it was interesting.
So much of the English literary fiction I've read lately has featured protagonists who are fairly horrible people, or who come across that way. (Darley from the Alexandria Quartet comes across as massively pretentious and self-involved but turns out to be perfectly nice and show more personable and self-effacing in person.) Intellectual, superior, condescending, pungently opinionated, self-obsessed but compelling and, naturally, absolutely fantastic writers. Charles Arrowby is a particularly monstrous creation, his ego forged in the fires of the theatrical world where he dominated, god-like, over the productions he directed. Completely and thoroughly up himself in a way that is hard to credit, he takes routine, everyday joy in the failures and set-backs of his friends and contemporaries, and sets himself up as a self-exiled Prospero in his remote cliff-top cottage: statesman, sage and retired wizard, waiting for his spirits, malign and blessed, to come serve and appease him.
The first thing that happens is the vision of a sea-serpent rising from the waves. What this portends is ambiguous. Frankly it could symbolise anything, from a break with everyday reality to the devouring beast of jealousy that is about to consume Charles or the eastern mysticism of his cousin James. Assigning simple one-to-one correspondences seems almost vulgar, but perhaps in keeping with the theatrical backdrop.
The next thing that happens is the sprites duly arrive, separately, a Caliban and an Ariel in the form of two women, one of whom is afflicted with love, the other with hate, both upsetting his equanimity with their demands. Then, like a shipwreck crashing on his rocks, a childhood sweetheart appears, and the serpent of love and jealousy and obsession thrashes onto shore and starts to eat everything in sight.
A campaign of comic terror begins as Charles invades and disrupts his childhood sweetheart's married, though not blissfully, life. Charles is a Shakesperean idiot, plotting and manipulating and lying and interfering and speechifying and generally capering about in a self-deluded frenzy. Hartley and her husband are an Ortonian kitchen-sink drama married couple, locked in a possibly mutually abusive relationship, him with anger and jealousy and her with mental issues and a cringing meekness, both dependent on each other however bad things might seem. A missing adopted son rounds off the classically dysfunctional twentieth century British lower middle class nuclear family. It all culminates in kidnapping and captivity and it's sort of funny and sort of skin-crawling, which I suppose is very much the point.
The whole thing is told by Charles, an unreliable narrator utterly reliable in his self-serving delusions. He constantly uses flipping inverted commas for 'everyday phrases' or 'common cliches' as if to underline his remoteness from everyday reality and honest down-to-earth emotions that cannot compete with the flamboyancy of theatrical life. It drives you crazy, but a distinctive voice emerges and is sustained through to the end when Prospero finally returns, books drowned and staff snapped, to Milan, ego more or less intact and any moral development possibly on a scale too tiny for the human eye to appreciate.
This won the Booker, and it's as daft and peculiar as a brush. I shall look askance at 'literary types' who turn their noses up at 'genre fiction' in the future. No amount of lovely writing can disguise the fundamentally unreal oddness of this book. Not that I'm complaining. I'm just saying, is all. show less
So much of the English literary fiction I've read lately has featured protagonists who are fairly horrible people, or who come across that way. (Darley from the Alexandria Quartet comes across as massively pretentious and self-involved but turns out to be perfectly nice and show more personable and self-effacing in person.) Intellectual, superior, condescending, pungently opinionated, self-obsessed but compelling and, naturally, absolutely fantastic writers. Charles Arrowby is a particularly monstrous creation, his ego forged in the fires of the theatrical world where he dominated, god-like, over the productions he directed. Completely and thoroughly up himself in a way that is hard to credit, he takes routine, everyday joy in the failures and set-backs of his friends and contemporaries, and sets himself up as a self-exiled Prospero in his remote cliff-top cottage: statesman, sage and retired wizard, waiting for his spirits, malign and blessed, to come serve and appease him.
The first thing that happens is the vision of a sea-serpent rising from the waves. What this portends is ambiguous. Frankly it could symbolise anything, from a break with everyday reality to the devouring beast of jealousy that is about to consume Charles or the eastern mysticism of his cousin James. Assigning simple one-to-one correspondences seems almost vulgar, but perhaps in keeping with the theatrical backdrop.
The next thing that happens is the sprites duly arrive, separately, a Caliban and an Ariel in the form of two women, one of whom is afflicted with love, the other with hate, both upsetting his equanimity with their demands. Then, like a shipwreck crashing on his rocks, a childhood sweetheart appears, and the serpent of love and jealousy and obsession thrashes onto shore and starts to eat everything in sight.
A campaign of comic terror begins as Charles invades and disrupts his childhood sweetheart's married, though not blissfully, life. Charles is a Shakesperean idiot, plotting and manipulating and lying and interfering and speechifying and generally capering about in a self-deluded frenzy. Hartley and her husband are an Ortonian kitchen-sink drama married couple, locked in a possibly mutually abusive relationship, him with anger and jealousy and her with mental issues and a cringing meekness, both dependent on each other however bad things might seem. A missing adopted son rounds off the classically dysfunctional twentieth century British lower middle class nuclear family. It all culminates in kidnapping and captivity and it's sort of funny and sort of skin-crawling, which I suppose is very much the point.
The whole thing is told by Charles, an unreliable narrator utterly reliable in his self-serving delusions. He constantly uses flipping inverted commas for 'everyday phrases' or 'common cliches' as if to underline his remoteness from everyday reality and honest down-to-earth emotions that cannot compete with the flamboyancy of theatrical life. It drives you crazy, but a distinctive voice emerges and is sustained through to the end when Prospero finally returns, books drowned and staff snapped, to Milan, ego more or less intact and any moral development possibly on a scale too tiny for the human eye to appreciate.
This won the Booker, and it's as daft and peculiar as a brush. I shall look askance at 'literary types' who turn their noses up at 'genre fiction' in the future. No amount of lovely writing can disguise the fundamentally unreal oddness of this book. Not that I'm complaining. I'm just saying, is all. show less
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