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I have an intense love for this book, yet I find myself completely at a loss as to how to make sense of it. It truly is like a unicorn in its own right: whenever you attempt to explain it, you end up sounding utterly crazy. How seriously should one take it? And yet, could it not be the most serious thing that has ever existed? This is my very first encounter with Murdoch. I am reading her works because I came across an interesting article recently that proposed that she and I share some overlapping ideas regarding morality. As I delve into this book, I suspect that it is more than just that. We have some overlapping and intersecting ways of being in the world and interacting with other people, with congruent preoccupations. I desire to contrast her with Mieville, whom I found to be so hard – not difficult in the sense of complexity, but rather hard-edged. I bounced off the surface of his works; he kept me at a great distance. This, on the other hand, is the complete opposite: there is no surface, only interpretations, and we are already deeply immersed from the very beginning. Way inside, just like Effingham sinking in the swamp. (That's the one aspect that I didn't quite believe: why didn't that sinking have a more profound impact on him?) And this may not make any rational sense, but you see, that is the crux of the matter: we are both neo-touchy-feely-ists. The most significant sense is the intuitive sense. (I really like this, but I am gently suggesting that I am unable to determine if it is a good book by any objective measure. But then again, I don't suppose it necessarily has to be.)