After several years of resisting reading her, for obscure reasons known only to my subconscious, I've finally become an Iris Murdoch fan. As it turns out, all I needed to effect this transformation was to actually read her works: they’re brilliant, no doubt about it.
“The Bell” somehow manages to simultaneously live up to and disappoint Murdoch’s general standard of excellence. It lives up to it through well-crafted, steady prose, deep character analysis, and philosophical musings. Yet, present though these elements are, none of them stand out. This book is solid, for sure, a fine representative of her work, but not a sparkling standout like, say, “The Sea, The Sea.” Compared to other, less luminary authors, it’s an impressive achievement, but compared, I thought, to what Murdoch can do, it’s nothing at all: the prose wasn’t as beautiful as usual, the characters less interesting than usual, and the philosophy less compelling than usual. I know this is one the favorite books of a friend of mine, and I suppose I can see why, but it just didn’t do it for me.
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