I realized one day that, despite being a lifelong and passionate reader, I had never once picked up a book by Iris Murdoch. I had always imagined her as a highly philosophical and very "English" novelist of manners. How mistaken I was!
She is actually a dark and wacky writer, prone to long screeds of dialogue, wildly distorted characters and plots, and moral chaos. Truly great novels always have those moments of epiphany for me, when I feel new perceptual horizons and understandings unfold. However, in the end, this book lacked that.
The settings in the novel, such as London enveloped in a cold and creeping fog, are fabulously evocative. And the dreadful people engaging in dreadful deeds in ever-increasing and unlikely twists of improbability make me feel both thrilled and slightly unclean by the end.