Tag Archives: Iris Murdoch

In Bloom.

Posted on April 15, 2013 by

  She had no expression ready for so direct a glance and with a sense of failure she fluttered and dropped her eyes. She wondered if she were blushing. She had forgotten what it felt like inside when one blushed. … Continue reading →

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On the Path, Nonetheless.

Posted on March 6, 2013 by

Writing is the only activity which makes me feel “only I could produce this.” Whether or not “this” is of any use is of course the crucial question to which I know not & may not ever know the answer. … Continue reading →

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The Admirer

Posted on January 16, 2013 by

It is a weird thought that anyone is permitted to love anyone and in any way he pleases. Nothing in nature forbids it. A cat may look at a king, the worthless can love the good, the good the worthless, … Continue reading →

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I Know This Much Is True

Posted on July 30, 2012 by

The artist is learning a special language in which to reveal truth. If you write, write from the heart, yet carefully, objectively. Never pose. Write little things which you think are true. Then you may sometimes find that they are … Continue reading →

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Happiness. Snacks.

Posted on July 20, 2012 by

One of the secrets of the happy life is continuous small treats, and if some of these can be inexpensive and quickly procured so much the better. -Iris Murdoch. The Sea, The Sea.

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Pretty Much Every Love Story

Posted on June 18, 2012 by

She wanted things to be somehow as they had been, or as they had never quite been but might have been, or might be if only things were different which could not be different. -Iris Murdoch. Nuns and Soliders   … Continue reading →

Posted in Happiness, Literature, Observed | Tagged , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Still Here

Posted on February 17, 2012 by

He also felt an excited touched surprise that such a complex of emotions could still exist in such an old man. “Such an old man,” he thought to himself until the tears came. He was pleased at these moments when … Continue reading →

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A Traveler’s Wish

Posted on January 31, 2012 by

After this, I want silence, time to wonder, to think & to feel, to look at different cities & speak different tongues, & become wonderfully anonymous & lonely. -From Iris Murdoch’s Letters. The Writer at War.

Posted in Europe, Literature, Travel | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

before you go to the mall…

Posted on December 20, 2011 by

One of the secrets of the happy life is continuous small treats, and if some of these can be inexpensive and quickly procured so much the better. -Iris Murdoch. The Sea, The Sea.

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