I honestly can't ever imagine giving an Iris Murdoch novel less than four stars. Her books are almost uniformly well written and compelling. This is no exception.

The Italian Girl tells the story of an unhappy family on the eve of the death of the family matriarch. The characters include a spartan typesetter, two witchy Russian siblings, a disappointed housewife, and (of course) the Italian Girl.

I don't find this novel to be one of her strongest (not compared to books like The Bell or The Sandcastle) but then again, I can't imagine a book of hers that isn't worth reading.

The dark, engrossing story of a family falling apart after the evil-sounding mother figure passes away. The main character Edmund returns to his childhood home to find his brother is living a quite complicated, mixed up lifestyle. Edmund tries to help all members of the family, but tries to not get too involved. A good dark family story, with a happy ending--for Edmund at least.

This book reminds me a good deal of Walter Kaufmann's Critique of Religion and Philosophy. In both cases, an extremely well educated person with a literary or scholarly background tries to buttress traditional European ethical philosophy against what Yeats called the 'rough beast... slouching towards Bethlehem': i.e., positivism, fascism, existentialism, and all the rest of the 20th century -isms. Murdoch makes the same turn inward that Kaufmann does, seeing religion as a valid, real aspect of subjective experience and, following Kant, insisting on the complete separation and concomitant autonomy of the phenomenal and moral worlds. She then makes an essentially Platonic argument for the existence of objective moral standards. Most contemporary readers will find the terminology and the welter of names to be bewildering, to say the least. They may also feel whirled in circles by the book's sustained abstraction and insistence on subjectivity: it's like watching an otherwise sane woman using scissors to cut fog. But to my mind, the main problem is the absence of the most important name of the 19th century: Darwin. Robert Wright's book The Moral Animal explains why Darwin trumps Plato once and for all: "read monkeys for preexistence."

Iris Murdoch was appointed to the faculty of Oxford at the age of twenty-nine. In this book, published in 1992 and based on a series of public, valedictory lectures she was invited to give, she ranges over philosophy, literature, the concept of consciousness, the relationship between religion and morality, and other topics. She "cuts loose" here, unworried about academic niceties, expressing her unvarnished opinions. She is marvelously fluent in the western philosophical tradition, addressing Plato, Kant, Schopenhauer, Wittgenstein, Sartre, and Derrida, among others. Her position, reflecting many years of development, is Platonic in the best, pagan sense: she argues against modern versions of relativism, but also insists that all perception is saturated with value. She is concerned with the future of spirituality in a "demythologized" culture, and draws on Platonism here as well: "God" as a metaphorical representation of Good, Good as the ultimate (secular) source of spiritual nourishment. The vision is very clear and consistent. A shorter, earlier exercise is The Sovereignty of Good, and the novels Under the Net and The Nice and the Good address themes discussed more directly here.

Dame Murdoch convincingly creates a rich world within the fictional English spa village of Ennistone. The sweep of characters and allusions, historical, literary and philosophical, are impressive. In typical Murdoch fashion, the action revolves around an anti-social genius, in this case the philosopher, Rozanov. His famed intellect is more than offset but his petty cruelty and utter alienation from human society. His wretched ex-pupil, George, is his drunken disciple, repeatedly spurned by the "great man." The various sub-plots, involving Quakers, an homo-sexual Anglican priest, half-Gypsy maid-servants, a swimming lap-dog, and Rozanov's absurdly innocent and estranged grand-daughter, all illustrate various human foibles. All of the mere mortals want different things from the philosopher, but he is an empty man. All brain, no heart, except for his incestuous lust for his grand-daughter. I greatly preferred " A Fairly Honourable Defeat," and "The Sea, the Sea," as examples of the author weaving her tapestry of human frailty, self-deception, and morality. And at 700 pages, I wonder if a bit of judicious editing would not have kept things more interesting. A staggering and erudite achievement, nonetheless. Murdoch attempts more in a single paragraph than many authors achieve in a lifetime.

This is a brilliant, consuming, sweeping panorama or a work--that surprisingly seems yet to get its full due, whereas many of Murdoch's earlier, shorter (and lesser) novels enjoy rave reviews, large sales, "classic" status, and theatrical adaptations.

Yet it's a masterpiece on a multiplicity of levels, and as Mahler once said of *his* more "difficult" work, "[Its] time will yet come."

I wouldn't recommend this to someone who has naver read Murdoch--but, if you've read and enjoyed *The Black Prince* or *The Sea, The Sea*, for instance, make this your next selection.

Iris Murdoch's books aren't for everyone: they are for sensitive, intellectual, and introspective readers. I read this one a few months ago, and was very impressed with the quality of the writing, the complexity of the characters' personalities, and the pervasive exploration of their different viewpoints and feelings as the story unfolds. Not only is this book intelligent and insightful, it is also entertaining, and never slow-going. My only criticism concerns the two somewhat "fabulous" accidents which take place near the end. An excellent novel nevertheless.

The Sacred and Profane Love Machine describes the spectacular unravelling of two families at the hands of Blaise Gavender. The first family is his own "legitimate" one, comprising his wife Harriet and son David. The other is his lover Emily and their son Luca. A weary and cynical novelist,the newly widowed Montague Small, is the unwilling observer and intermediary of this melange. We see a recurring exploration of the meaning of love when the faults of the lovers suddenly become overwhelming and the only options are forgiveness or alienation.As in her other books, Murdoch's characters are complex, their motivations tangled by alternating emotional currents of elation, despair, and futility.

No sex, no violence, but pornography in the highest artistic sense: it is about the irredeemable. The worthless, the evil, the basest and most foul, while simulteneously exalting the pure aspects of love, even as it denigrates them.

If you can keep yourself from shuddering while Pinn speaks to Monty in his bedroom, then you need serious mental attention.

Iris Murdoch's books aren't for everyone: they are written for sensitive, intellectual, and introspective readers. The Black Prince is a very intelligent, well-crafted book. However, I think the 2 Forewords would have been better left out, as they refer to characters and events we know nothing of yet. Moreover, I found it regrettable that the novel only seems to really begin at about half-point. The first half tends to lack intensity and direction, but then the story finally takes a decisive - if no longer expected - turn for the more interesting. The second half is vintage Iris Murdoch, with several strong scenes. There's an abrupt surprise in store at the end, but the other surprises lurking in the Postscipts may be perceived as a bit unpleasant and excessive. Not Murdoch's best (I prefer The Sacred & Profane Love Machine), but still well worth reading.

"The Black Prince" is my favorite novel, and I can recommend it unreservedly for its vivid characters, for its complexity, its wit, its drama, for its analysis of human failings and triumphs, loves and hates, and for its prose, which is ecstatic, biting, and brilliant. The ambiguously romantic Black Prince of the title, Bradley Pearson, is an aged bachelor, whose range of somewhat histrionic emotions involves the serene Rachel Baffin, her confused daughter Julian, Rachel's novelist husband Arnold, Bradley's rival in so many ways, Bradley's dysfunctional sister Priscilla, and Bradley's prying ex-wife Christian, who holds the possibility of solace and redemption. In amongst this tangled web they weave Bradley "meditates" on art and metaphysics, sleeping and waking, life and death. Iris Murdoch is the English authoress of a score of popular novels. Unlike the submissions of most writers who attempt to be popular, Ms. Murdoch's elegant fictions are literature, and are also aspirants to the semi-mythical realm of "art". And what is "art"? Is it not, in at least its principle manifestation, great entertainment? And I would assert that the greatness of the entertainment depends mightily upon the reader. I know a man who thinks, and says, that all of Iris Murdoch's books are alike. Very well. Emotional response is surely the beginning of literary criticism (otherwise why bother reviewing this book, or that one?). I identified with Bradley Pearson for several years of my life, and was jubilant that he lived in a world of funny, thoughtful, intensely interesting people, most of whom were not relatives. "Morality" (I put this fragile word between quotation marks because it is so often misused) is intimate to the Murdoch view of things, and the "eternal verities" are influential, even numinous, to all of her characters, including the thoughtless ones. Love, as a unifying force, is awake and vibrant. Beauty is our glimpse of the Godhead. Truth is a paradise into which we may freely pass, if only we have the desire to do so. Justice is as intimate as self-condemnation and as ruthless as violence. Abstractions, in the world of Iris Murdoch's characters, dissolve into human emotions that clarify the world and link us in splendid ways to other human animals. "The Black Prince" is a celebration of our ambiguous and splendid emotions. [November 28, 1996]

I read Iris Murdoch's "The Sacred and Profane Love Machine" a year ago and didn't much like it. Too much talk, too little action and a plot surrounding a cast of strangely unsympathetic characters that goes nowhere. I thought I was in the same rut for much of the first third of "The Black Prince", when out of the blue, the black arrow of Eros struck and permanently altered the course of the novel. The unexpected change of pace and sudden focus on Bradley Pearce's relationship with the object of his desire at the expense of the adult (and mostly tiresome) characters was a clever Murdoch device that drew me inexorably into the plot. There was no let up in action from there on - the story played relentlessly to its dramatic but tragic conclusion. You see through the eyes of Bradley and form your judgement based on his version of the motives and designs of the unsavoury characters which envelop him but are thrown off guard by the radically different perspectives of the other players (shades of "Rashomon") in the postscript. You get the feeling that nobody's version encapsulates the whole truth (is there such a thing ?) and that everybody creates a best-fit truth that assuages his conscience. Murdoch is heavy on dialogue (nothing wrong with that) but there is a tendency for it to be repetitive (her characters are overly talkative) which can be hellavu irritating. I found that in The Sacred and Profane Love Machine too - must be a Murdoch trait. But whereas the latter is limp and soggy, The Black Prince has a highly intriguing plot and all the elements of a kitchen sink drama-cum-thriller that makes it a winner. A really great read.

This is my first (and possibly last) Iris Murdoch novel. Although I'm not a fan of the mystery genre, I was looking forward to reading it. The central plot involving the suicide or possible murder of a civil servant involved in black magic is surpisingly uninteresting, the pace plodding and the 'revelation' predictable. The periphary characters are heavy-handed from the all too free-spirited civil servant couple to the all too anguished Dachau survivor. The only sub-plot of interest involves an adolescent crush which also gives the book its rare suspense. The coincidentals of the plot are absurd to the point of being Dickensian and the story ties up altogether too neatly (and happily) although I did enjoy the final irony of the love-sick teenagers. I'll stick to Cormac McCarthy for my debate on good, evil and the nature of man

Murdoch explores how people's actions are driven by their self-images and personal mythologies. The vanities, fears or ambitions that dominate the way our lives unfold vary all over the place - from the need of the protagonist to "think well of himself," to the craving for love, the desire to serve humbly, or the need to forget something awful. Murdoch lets these motivations play out through her plots, which are really extravagant thought experiments. She focuses in particular on our secrets, the various reasons we have for hiding them, and the ways in which we slip into self indulgence and self-justification.

Some may find this approach a bit artificial and intellectual, but I felt that although the situations might be somewhat contrived, the character's responses and actions rang true. I found the book very readable, and it met my main criterion for a novel - it taught me something new about why people act the way they do.

I will do by best to convey in words how wonderful is this novel. This is the first work by Iris Murdoch that I have read, and I am fascinated. Her style of writing flows simply and beautifully, like a slow, undulating melody that one never wants to end. I became completely absorbed in the characters and the plot, with its unexpected twists and complex layerings of character relationships. Her character descriptions sometimes border on psychological analyses, but they are not boring nor are they misplaced. In short, I REALLY liked it.

John Bayley was married to the famous writer, Iris Murdoch, for over 40 years. Sadly she developed Alzheimer's disease late in life and Mr. Bayley's book recounts how he dealt with this sad fact. It is a very intimate portrait of a famous writer, and, includes their many wonderful times together during their marriage. One learns, for example, that Mr. Bayley did most of the cooking, that they both like to go skinny dipping in favorite rivers nearby, that Iris was not a pretentious person, and how some of their experiences translated into Iris's wonderful novels. Mr. Bayley is a learned man in his own right and his allusions to art and literature add much to his narrative. While the author shows few signs of self-pity in this memoir, some of the persona foibles of Iris as a result of her illness are not very flattering and can't help but diminish her stature in the eyes of the reader. Maybe it would have been better to not have known some of these intimate details. Nevertheless, Mr Bayley's regard and love for Iris shines through as does his respect for her creative powers. In all, this is a very readable, erudite, and personable story of a marriage between two well-known writers.

Jim Broadbent ("Topsy-Turvy," "Moulin Rouge") brought home Oscar gold for his role of John Bayley in the movie "Iris."

With the film (also starring Dame Judi Dench in the title role, and "Titanic" star Kate Winslet playing a younger version) now available for rental, it's a good time to also check out the book upon which the movie is based.

"Elegy for Iris" is Bayley's heart-rending memoir of his wife, celebrated novelist Iris Murdoch ("A Severed Head" and "The Bell" among them). It is the story of Bayley and Murdoch's romance, from their first meeting and the bookish Bayley's instant attraction to the girl on a bicycle.

Love seemed to bloom almost immediately, despite Bayley's lack of experience and Murdoch's plethora of suitors. In fact, Bayley tells us that years later he happened upon Murdoch's note for their first date: "St. Antony's Dance. Fell down the steps, and seem to have fallen in love with J. We didn't dance much."

At the same time, "Elegy" is also a tale of the modern John and Iris, as the celebrated novelist suffers from Alzheimer's disease, and her husband watches as her once brilliant mind falters.

But while the book will bring tears, it isn't really a tearjerker.

Bayley shares some of the personal, silly little jokes he tells Iris that at one time would not really have amused either of them, but which draw a favorable reaction from her now. And the way that one of his exasperated temper tantrums settles her nerves now more than coddling will.

While Bayley is at times frustrated, understandably so, he seems more enamored of his wife then ever. He marvels at the things she does, reflects on their shared past, they way her mind worked then contrasted with the way it worked as he wrote "Elegy" (Murdoch died in February).

At no time does Bayley seem to resent being saddled with his wife. In fact, he expresses distaste for the wife of another Alzheimer's patient when she comments that it is "like being chained to a corpse, isn't it?"

No, declares Bayley, and he goes to bat for his wife.

"I was repelled by the suggestion that Iris' affliction could have anything in common with that of this jolly woman's husband. She was a heroine, no doubt, but let her be a heroine in her own style. How could our cases be compared? Iris was Iris."

So says a testament to quiet strength, bravery and love.

If you've lost a loved one to dementia, whether caused by Alzheimer's or strokes, you know that this dreadful change in your life can be--as a woman in Elegy for Iris notes so terribly--like "being chained to a corpse." You may feel you exist in a perpetual state of mourning, and release seems impossibly distant since the process of degeneration can last for a decade, fifteen years, or more.

Four years ago before this book was published, Alzheimer's began to chip away at acclaimed novelist Iris Murdoch and she started to lose memories, associations and connection with herself. Her husband of forty years, English critic John Bayley, has written a memoir about this escalating series of losses that is imbued with admiration, love, and gentle humor. Bayley compellingly interweaves descriptions of his wife's sad deterioration with stories of their courtship and long, contented marriage. What is remarkable about this narrative (which needed better editing, however), is that despite the very real tragedy of Alzheimer's, he is not bitter or self-pitying, and what links him and his wife now is anything but a chain.

Murdoch and Bayley seem to have given each other the freedom to live complete lives, however they needed to, and that freedom was a profound tie. "We were together because we were comforted and reassured by the solitariness each saw and was aware of in the other," he observes. And tracing their growing love for one another, he makes one envy the balance they found between separateness and companionship (which counterpoints their domestic squalor). From the earliest days onward, marriage and solitude were not contradictions for them. They could "be closely and physically entwined, and yet feel solitude's friendly presence, as warm and undesolating as contiguity itself."

All that reverberates strangely with the ways in which Murdoch now is shut off from him far more than she ever was as a creative artist, but seems to need the constant reassurance of his presence. She is like a child hungry for attention, but unable to communicate clearly, and sometimes needs to be gently shooed away so that he can have time to himself. Yet she returns, anxious, needful. Sometimes her confusions drive him into a rage, but she often responds to these outbursts with the same ameliorative calm she always had.

Given their long, happy marriage, Bayley and Murdoch's first meetings were comically inauspicious. In his late twenties and a graduate student teaching at Oxford after World War II, Bailey spied Murdoch bicycling past one day looking grumpy, grim, and not entirely attractive. Yet for Bailey, she was almost an apparition, a woman existing only in the moment--and for him alone. But his instantaneous fantasies were soon crushed when he met her at a party and realized she was merely another teacher. How ordinary! Worse still, she was clearly a popular and magnetic woman with many friends (and not a few lovers, he would learn). Though he tried, he never managed to make conversation with her that night, and when his next opportunity came at a dinner, he was daunted by the seriousness with which this philosophy teacher considered his most casual remarks.

On their first date he was oddly shocked by her brilliant red brocade dress which struck him as inappropriate for her, and she managed to fall down stairs as they entered a ball. But not much later they were laughing and sharing childhood confidences, and it's thanks to their childlike joy that the bonds between them were first knit, lasting even into her Alzheimer's. Rather miraculously, humor survives between them, even now that her memory has faded, leaving her incapable of finishing sentences and often lost in a state of "vacant despair." Bayley can still make Murdoch smile with silly jokes and rhymes. There's so much love (and quiet suffering) in Bayley's observation that a smile "transforms her face, bringing it back to what it was, and with an added glow that seems supernatural."

Murdoch's kindness, her affability, her lack of egotism about her career make for odd continuity with the generally sweet-natured woman she is under the spell of Alzheimer's, and Bayley's deep appreciation of these excellent qualities seems to undergird his current devotion. Time and again, the author makes the best of a bitter situation, and even finds aspects of it enjoyable. He manages, for instance, to find something delightful in regularly watching the British children's show "Teletubbies" with her. But all his fond memories and his loving attention to her in the present cannot veil the especial cruelty of watching a sharp-minded and fertile novelist "sail into the darkness," as Murdoch puts it herself in a moment of lucidity.

Among various literary subjects, Bayley has written about Henry James, and Elegy for Iris richly and warmly demonstrates a truth affirmed by a character in James's The Ambassadors: "The only safe thing is to give--it's what plays you least false."

Lev Raphael, author of LITTLE MISS EVIL, the 4th Nick Hoffman mystery.

Having recently seen the movie IRIS, which detailed the writers battle with Alzheimer's, I was motivated to read one of her works. Suppossedly she was a novelist/philsopher but,if 'Under the Net' contained any grandiose phillisophical theories, I must have missed them. But I accept the fact that Ms. Murdoch must have been one of the finest minds of her era. I found the novel fast paced and easy to read and the humor, typical of the British, very subtle.

It was interseting that a female author would have a male protagonist and narrator. The hero, Jake Donahue, is a frustrated author turned interpretter of foreign novels. He is displaced from his residence by his landlady/lover and,in his attempt to find another place to live, he is reunited with an ex-lover and in the process is re-introduced to several other people from his past.

In the midst of Jake's search for his own self worth, he comes into contact with several intersting people in both the world of books and films. In one of the most light hearted episodes, Jake and his cronies, Dave and Finn, manage to kidnap a dog film star and Jake becomes the aging dog's protector. Through his protection of the dog, Jake uncovers in himself a gentler side that he did not know existed.

Whether Jake's misfortunes are due to betrayl by his friends or by his own stubborness and laziness is not quite clear. However at the end the reader has the sense that Jake is truly a better person for all his travails.

This isn't merely Murdoch's first novel, it is also (one of) her best. The story of the would-be writer Jake D. who struggles to find a proper literary philosophy to ignite his career, nicely reflects Murdoch's own intellectual struggles in writing "Under the Net". Although this might sound rather high-blown and tedious, it is not, for by mixing the philosophical musings with the picaresque form, Murdoch ensures that the story is highly dynamic and entertaining. We follow Jake through a series of bizarrely comic and breathtaking incidents, and observe how he develops his initial egoistical Sartrean world-view to a truer and more profound understanding of his fellow-beings. It is fascinating to watch how this development unveils Jake's pretentiousness and shapes him into a mature artist. In sum, this novel simply has and is everything, drama, farce, mask, satire etc. and Murdoch has mixed these elements with such dexterity that one can doubt whether she ever wrote a better book. In saying so it must also be emphasised that "Under the Net" foreshadows much of Murdoch's later work.

Very few books have I ever picked up to immediately find myself thinking, "Oh!"

Such was the case with "Under the Net". This was my first Iris Murdoch novel, but by no means will it be my last.

She deftly creates empathy for our anti-hero, Jake, while making him less than sympathetic, drawing the reader into the story while at the same time keeping us far enough away that we can comfortably laugh at the proceedings. Murdoch also reveals her story slowly, layer by layer, turning what we believe will be little more than mild humor into a mystery of character assassination.

And it reads very much like a mystery, the kind that you just don't find anymore. But here it is not a dead body that is the victim, but rather a living, breathing one. But is he as much a victim as he likes to think he is? Our hero finds that nothing is as he believes it to be.

Is it ever?

I have read both the editorial and customer reviews of this novel and admit to being perplexed.

I agree with the reviewer that said the novel was hard to get into....in fact, after falling asleep over the first section several times, I resorted to searching local libraries until I found the audio version of the novel on 16 cassetes! That got me into the story in a flash and then I was hooked....until I got to the numerous fantastical elements of what was already a marginally plausible plot.

I thoroughly enjoyed the story of Peter Mir and his quest for justice as well as friendship with Lucas' family and friends. I held out hope of Peter's success, but the story that resulted is very far from any I had in my head. I was left shaking my head in dismay.

One of the customer reviews refers to an interview with Iris Murdoch regarding her beginning-middle-ending philosophy of literature. I too would like to have a novel tied up better than many modern novels are, but the ending of this novel is so pat that I keep wondering how she ever got it by her editors. Unlike the customer review that said the ending made him/her feel satisfied, I found the ending so unsatisfying that it altered my overall review of what, until then, had been a delightful, if marginally believable, book to listen to.

It was very helpful to listen to the audio version with a wonderful British reader....just fabulous how the narrator did the voices and conveyed the story as though she knew the characters intimately.

I read the novel for a book club that is yet to meet. It will be interesting to see what this most critical group thinks of it. For my part, although I survived the experience, I would not recommend it except as an audio and, even then, only to a person who can accept a saccharin ending.

A beautiful finish to this novel. It was spotty in parts, and I frequently wondered if early 90's British teens and early 20's talked and thought like that, but the finish was so well-rounded, so unexpected that I am left with a wonderful taste in my mouth.

The going is slow initially- I was reminded of D.H. Lawrence's "Women in Love" because I just *didn't like those people*. I really didn't. I couldn't stand Joan, didn't like Bellamy, thought Harvey was vapid, and the Cliftonians unreal. I stuck around long enough to get to know them, and changed my attitude about some of them. I even became so involved that I was cheered by some of the mistakes being made right- especially when it came to the dog. I wanted to help correct things, and to influence people.

At times, I wondered who the novel was about. Was it Peter? Kind of- Peter transformed people, or so we assumed. (but did he?) Maybe it was the Cliftonians because they featured prominently? No, overall, events happened to them, but they didn't cause them. I thought for awhile that it was about Lucas, and in a way it was. Lucas was quite a force for "the family", even though he was so rarely present. The novel even starts with his absence. But how could a novel be about an absent person? It doesn't matter though- it is about any of them and all of them. The marriages may have been a contrivance, but they were nice, some made sense, and others leave us with a lot to wonder about.

Iris Murdoch is a wonderful writer, and weaves a beautiful web with unexpected moments. Even when I forget the action of a novel, I remember the feeling she left me with.

While this novel is not as well constructed as "The Bell," it is still a fine novel. There is an obvious reference to the story of Gawain and his nemesis in the novel, a reference which is made explicit by a couple of the characters in the narrative. The ending, with its multiple marriages, is a little over the top in terms of contrivance; but, as Ms. Murdoch said herself in interviews -- in a passage quoted by the news wire after her death -- her novels have a beginning, middle, and end, which is more than we can say for most overtly "literary" novels these days. A great novel.

This novel can be summarized simply and briefly. If you like Jerry Springer, you'll love "The Unicorn". It is not even close to reality.

I was pleased with An Unofficial Rose by Dame Iris Murdoch. Her prose had an ethereal quality combined with the very best and elegant of the British reserve. So when The Unicorn beaconed from a shelf in a used bookstore, I happily succumbed.
I do love the fantastic and the fairytale genre, a great vehicle for great ideas.
The book starts out well enough, laying out the marshy grounds and casting enough fog for three Gothic horror stories. I could almost hear the growls of the Hound Of the Baskervilles while the characters wonder across the bog. The dim epicenter of the story is the beautiful, mysterious and of course aristocratic Hannah. She seems to be voluntarily enduring confinement in the familial castle. Her past as well as the past of her household is murkier then the flood waters in the local stream. Sleeping Beauty is cited more than once. Naturally, almost every character in the book, male or female, obsesses with Hannah and even tries on the shining armor of the rescuer prince. In other words, they all try to resuscitate her to normal life.
So far so good. Then the violent denouement comes and all of a sudden we have more corpses then a Shakesperean tragedy. The dialogue becomes less and less credible and while Shakespearean deaths are written in soul-shattering verse, Dame Iris succeeds in re-enacting the atmosphere of a daytime soap opera. I know the comparison is unfair, the gap is too wide between the tragic and melodramatic but I couldn't help myself.
Overall, an unsatisfying experience, a story unworthy of her otherwise eloquent voice.

"The Unicorn" has great pacing that makes you want to turn the page and see what happens next. It's slowed only by the characters' self-analysis. We might say there's a swamp of feeling that grows to a flood of feeling which paralells the weather within the story. Unicorn is set in a remote area of the British Isles by the sea. The story alternates characters through whom we see the story in its different parts: Marian, a teacher who comes to Gaze Castle and Effingham who's in love with 3 different women at different times, and who, through profuse self-analysis, is able to talk himself out of each of them. Both characters embody the yin and yang of uncertainty. It's their travel through waves of emotional uncertainty that gives the tale it's life-like feel. The supporting characters are delightfully distinct. Violet Evercreech is a judgmental oracle that made me picture Lily Tomlin running around the castle. Gerald Scottow is compex mix of opportunist and homosexual domineer. Denis is somber and taciturn, attracted briefly to Marian. The best chapter is Denis' rescue of Effingham. Jamsie, Scottow's boy toy, is delightfully weak. At the center of the storm is Hannah around whom Murdoch swirls the tale. Although the dead bodies tend to multiply quickly, we leave Unicorn with a bittersweet regret. This is one to savor! Enjoy!