Looks like I bought this book at a sale back in 2004 and then didn’t read it. I guess that happens more often with books on sale than other books.
This is a slightly over-the-top satire of the “middle aged academic meets pixie dream girl” genre: The main character, Mor, is the head of a house of a second rate college, and he meets an early 20s painter, named Rain, who he falls in love with (and she falls in love with him, of course). In these sort of things written by men, the older guy is always suave, smart and irresistibly sexy, somehow, but in ways that aren’t always readily discernible to the plebs. Murdoch pokes fun at the conventions by making him basically a man without any qualities whatsoever, and instead makes the young woman 1) incredibly talented, 2) fabulously gorgeous, 3) mind-bogglingly rich and 4) actually rather smart.
She still falls madly in love with him, so it’s all very amusing.
It devolves into farce at times, which is even funnier: Whenever they have a fumbling tryst somewhere, even if it’s in the middle of the woods or a seemingly deserted basement, the wrong person will always randomly walk in on the scene, and embarrassment (or a laugh track) ensues.
It’s very funny.
…
Or is it!?! I just read the book’s back cover now (I never read it beforehand), and they say it’s a deep psychological portrait, and don’t mention anything about it being funny at all!
And people don’t think to think it’s a satire either!
Murdoch does a very good job of illuminating the everyday hopes and despairs of ordinary people in a subtle and understated way.
So many fine things to treasure, so many memorable scenes and motifs, it’s hard to summarise and I won’t. This is a novel that has clear roots in the late 19th century tradition of realist, emotionally engaged, socially aware novels and yet is in itself fresh and gripping. Not somber but rigorous and therefore as exhausting as it is exhaustive and satisfying.
Phew:
Murdoch’s third novel, The Sandcastle, was a not entirely successful attempt to write more realistically about “ordinary” people and problems—it had elements of women’s magazine romanticism, and touches of the fey.
At least A. S. Byatt is almost on my side.
Anyway, the Norwegian translation I have here is fine — it’s from 1961, and is clear and readable. But as is my wont, I got fed up after a while and bought the original on Kobo:
It doesn’t make much sense for me to buy English-language books translated to Norwegian on sale, because I almost invariably end up buying the original version, too. So that’s the opposite of savings!
Anyway, despite me misunderstanding the entire point of the book, or even what genre it was, I thought it was really good! The scene where the son almost dies from falling off the tower was gripping. Yes, very melodramatic, but that’s fun.
The absolute best parts of the novel were when we were allowed into Felicity, the 14 year old daughter’s head. The depiction of the fantasy life, filled with playful ideas about magic and portents and stuff, was brilliant.
The style the book is written in is somewhat odd — all the characters analyse themselves a lot, so we get pages and pages about what they think. And they’re all risibly wrong about themselves (or at least that’s how I interpret it; I’m probably wrong there, too), so it gives it all a real frisson.
It’s pretty ace? Yeah, sure.
The Sandcastle (1970) by Iris Murdoch (buy used, 3.83 on Goodreads)