The book under discussion is centered around Blaise, a psychotherapist. His relationships with his wife and his mistress form a significant part of the narrative. In a sense, they can be seen as the'sacred' and the 'profane love machine' as per the title. What might initially appear to be a rather straightforward plot gradually unfolds to disclose much deeper aspects of the characters within the book.

Murdoch has a remarkable ability to engage the reader by piquing their interest in the characters themselves. This is perhaps the reason why the story doesn't commence with the events directly but rather with a detailed character description of the important figures. By doing so, she draws the reader into the world of the characters, making them invested in their lives and relationships.

This approach allows for a more in-depth exploration of the human psyche and the complex emotions and dynamics that exist between people. It makes the book not just a simple tale but a profound examination of love, desire, and the consequences of our actions.

Overall, Murdoch's use of character-driven storytelling is a masterful technique that keeps the reader hooked from beginning to end.

I feel that a review of this book would not truly capture its essence if the reviewer did not, at some point during the process, describe one or more recent dreams.

The most recent dream that I can vividly recall is of myself at a funeral. In this dream, I was filling the casket with colored pencil stubs. You see, when the pencils become too short to be sharpened, some people get creative and use epoxy resin to transform them into vases, bowls, or even guitars. Well, it seems that I am far more adventurous than that.

Iris, I have no doubt that you would have described this dream in a much more beautiful and eloquent manner. But then again, you would have continued on to describe my feelings about this book in great detail, perhaps over the course of five pages, and might even have thrown in some moral philosophy for good measure. This is precisely the reason why most of your books are on my 'Someday-When-I-Grow-Up' list. There is no other writer for whom I have greater admiration. Someday, I hope to be able to write beautiful reviews of all of your works.

The ending is terribly disappointing. After hundreds of pages of intense soulsearching, IM seemingly gives up.

I assume the title implies a contrast between mechanical living and enlightenment, with "sacred" mainly referring to Emily's act of freeing Blaise from Harriet's taboos. However, shouldn't she have included at least one more instance of sacred love? For example, from among Kiki/Monty/Edgar/David/Pinn?

And was Magnus Bowles just inserted to make Harriet's ten-years-naivete more believable (and blameable on Monty)? Do we get to witness anybody falling in love? Is there anyone even remotely admirable?

The story had so much potential, but it feels unfinished and lacking in crucial elements. The characters' development seems stunted, and the overall plot could have been more fully explored. It's a shame that such a promising start didn't lead to a more satisfying conclusion.

Perhaps with a bit more effort and attention to detail, the author could have created a truly remarkable and unforgettable story. As it stands, however, it leaves the reader with a sense of dissatisfaction and a longing for more.

There is a decent family from the English middle class.

The father is a practicing psychoanalyst, while the mother is a housewife with unshakable moral principles. Their son is finishing high school and getting ready for college. The Hoodhouse hood provides a reliable shelter for them from the daily storms and tempests of life.

The deck is shuffled in such a bizarre way that in the original language, its name only refers to a special kind of collar, equally suitable for a medieval monk and a rapper. However, the Russian ear distinguishes it as "badly".

They can read Dickens and Trollope aloud, sitting in the living room in the evening. They can also discuss in a low voice their father's laudable desire to study medicine. He is a spontaneous psychoanalyst without a medical license, which sounds wild today but was perhaps not so strange in the early 1970s in England.

So, Blaze's student days will require them to tighten their belts. But they will cope. They are not sybarites. They will stand shoulder to shoulder and overcome this study.

In the worst-case scenario, they will sell some securities or, in an extremely extreme case, ask for a loan from Monty. Who is Monty? He is a neighbor, a nice man, a widower, and a writer. He recently lost his wife to cancer and is suffering unimaginably.

It's not even clear whether Milo will be able to continue the series of books about the private detective that made him famous. There's even a TV series based on it. But Blaze and Harriet are true friends and exemplary neighbors, surrounding him with love and care.

They will overcome their studies, and then Blaze will also finish his book, become famous, and the reflection of his glory will fall on Harriet, his gentle wife.

Everything is so cute and patriarchal, in the best traditions of the British educated middle class. You, the reader, yawning, might think: well, when will something start between Monty and Harriet to make it less boring? But you can't guess.

Everything has been tied up for a long time, but not with a devoted wife, but with a nice talkative husband. Blaze has been in a relationship with a young woman for more than nine years. He rents an apartment for her (a shitty one, it should be noted), and they have a son together.

The beautiful child, Luca, tends to disregard social conventions. Today, we might call him Asperger's, but this story takes place half a century ago when special children were labeled as "mentally abnormal", and the fashionable topic was not autism but Freudianism, with its endless attention to dreams.

Yes, the heroes have an unimaginable number of dreams that they see, remember, retell, try to interpret, or try to forget. This is part of the book's vintage charm, which is now perceived as blatant bad taste.

Luca is not a bright spot for Emily, to be honest. And Blaze doesn't have particularly paternal feelings for him. But the child cements their relationship and doesn't allow this respected man to shake off the dust of his shameful affair and return completely to the bosom of his family.

And it can't be said that Harriet didn't subconsciously sense something. Why else would she surround herself with comforting dogs if not in an attempt to compensate for the lack of dedication and love?

The theme of adultery, a bit improper and very fascinating for the initiators, is painfully painful for the one who finds out last. This is nothing new. Just like the assertion that the human constitution is not monogamous.

You can't live a life without ever casting an interested glance around. Unless you're alone on a deserted island, the question remains whether it will only be a glance.

Lady Iris Murdoch prepares the situation of her heroes with the precision of a laser scalpel, showing the reader a spectrum of reactions, from the expected to the unpredictable.

Here, the kind-hearted Harriet learns from her repentant husband about his many years of deception. Instead of kicking him out like a dog, she enters a state of additional care.

BUT! Not having full information, she is sure that her beloved strayed only that one time when the boy was conceived. AND! She thinks that now it's all over between him and Emily.

She believes that this child is actually not wanted by either the mother or the father, and that it is he, not the illicit sex on dirty sheets, that is the reason the relationship continues.

And she is thinking about how to arrange it so that Luca can stay for a long time and, in the future, even settle in the Hoodhouse. Especially since he immediately took to her (dogs, there are dogs too, remember?).

Needless to say, excessive kindness and self-sacrifice are dangerous for the donor and corrupt the recipients?

Before writing my review, I browsed through others. I was惊讶 to see how many women are inclined to see Harriet's unwavering British decency as servility and hypocrisy.

And also, every first review is dissatisfied with the sloppy ending. To be honest, the one in which the scene with the dogs would have been brought to a logical conclusion appealed to me more.

But moral realism, almost like history, does not tolerate the subjunctive mood. Therefore: you get what you get.

Lady Iris loves her reader more than she deserves and gives a harsh lesson, warning against destructive behavior patterns: don't dissolve yourself completely in your man; have your own interests and social circle; take care of your financial independence.

You might say: "Oh, come on, who was Murdoch writing for, for Western intellectuals who, as we know, are in the minority."

But constructive ideas are not directly incorporated into the mass consciousness but are mediated through adaptation by the collective unconscious.

And what progressive humanity has already accepted as the norm may still struggle for a long time in more patriarchal parts of the world: the light is great, and no one has abolished the language barrier, and there is no such powerful and continuous tradition of feminism in Russian-language literature.

But we are moving in the direction that was set by books like this in their time. And therefore, there is less stupidity. Despite everything.

This one is a slow burner.

It takes time for this story of a pathetic second-rate cheater to get hold of you. However, once it does, you'll find yourself completely hooked.

There's hardly a moral centre here. All the characters are more or less delusional. The unjust ending is indeed hard to swallow.

Still, this is Murdoch in the 70's. She was an author at the top of her game. Even though it was written between the haunting Black Prince and the superb Word Child, it's a gem worth discovering.

The story may unfold gradually, but its charm lies in the way it lures you in. The characters' delusions add a layer of complexity and mystery.

Despite the unsatisfactory ending, the overall work showcases Murdoch's literary prowess. It's a testament to her ability to create engaging and thought-provoking narratives.

So, don't be deterred by the slow start. Give this book a chance and you might just be surprised by its hidden treasures.

Iris Murdoch's novels are marked by her benevolence.

The main theme that runs through her works is love, encompassing both requited and unrequited love, as well as normal and abnormal manifestations.

Terrible events may occur within her novels or be related by her characters, yet there is no wallowing in evil. She does not present it with malicious intent, using realism or plot as a guise for something unwholesome.

The driving ambition of her characters often centers around victory in love. Defeat is a frequent and harrowing experience, but ultimately, her faith in love prevails.

However, her weakness lies in the fact that her characters can seem too blatantly like tools for her storytelling, lacking genuine independent life. This impression can be compounded by the dominance of her intelligence.

In this regard, her novels can arguably be considered unrealistic, as the majority of real-life characters do not appear as interesting or as dedicated to love as those in her novels.

But isn't it the role of the novelist to highlight character and make it engaging, perhaps even inspiring the reader to become, if not a better person, at least a more honest one and more determined to live for what one loves?

Iris Murdoch's world is not a vast one. It is that of a twentieth-century British upper-middle-class member, dealing with the entanglements of the human heart.

In "The Sacred and Profane Love Machine," the story revolves around Montague Small, a highly successful detective fiction writer mourning his late wife, and his neighbor, Blaise Gavender, who is at the center of an eternal triangle.

Murdoch's portrayal of the two women in Blaise's life, his wife and his mistress, is sympathetic, perceptive, unrelenting, and very intelligent.

Blaise is faced with the choice between a sacred and a profane life and is too weak to make a decision. His hope that he can "muddle through" and have the best of both worlds means that he leaves the battle to the two women, whose love for him is bewildering to this reviewer but no more so than real-life affections.

Only the deus ex machina solution to Blaise's dilemma seemed jarring to me in this otherwise believable and captivating tale.

"There is 'nowt queerer than folk'" and nothing more strange than the heart's affections. This is a moving, sad yet ultimately happy book that succeeds due to the writer's immense sympathy and psychological洞察力.

So many times during my reading of this book, I found myself deeply relating to the thought processes unfolding within the characters. There's Blaise, Harriet, Emily, and David. Each one with their own unique inner world and struggles.

Monty, on the other hand, is like a curve ball. He serves as a reminder that not all humans are the same, think identically, or feel in the same way. It's truly a relief that matters get resolved without having to resort to something hidden. However, I was quite surprised in the latter part by how it all came about.

Yet, Iris Murdoch astutely allows that life doesn't really have a neat resolution. The characters are well aware of this when they experience a short-lived sense of relief from their dilemmas. This is beautifully carried through with references to dreams, demons, nightmares, and the need to not venture beyond the door where the black dog lurks.

I have made up my mind that I must read more of Iris Murdoch's works and also reread the novels that I have enjoyed previously, such as "The Bell" and "The Sea, The Sea". Her writing has a profound impact on me, making me think deeply about the human condition and the complex nature of our lives.

Murdoch was a philosopher.

Her works that I have truly loved, such as "The Black Prince" and "The Sea the Sea", do not read like philosophical novels. Instead, they read like glorious orgies of absurdity, chaos, and pain. However, this one... this one reads like a philosophical novel. The characters speak in unnatural ways as they are mouthing philosophical ideas. There is a lot of telling and not much showing. We must be told exactly why each character is doing what they are doing! It feels like everything in the novel is being presented for our moral judgment, as Murdoch was a philosopher of morality. To me, this kind of thing sacrifices the illusion and magic of literature and reduces it to being merely a vessel, making art subordinate to ideas.

But, like Tolstoy, Murdoch clearly cares about craft no matter how deeply she veers into philosophy. This elevates her work above that of Kundera and others. The care and artfulness with which she constructs her world and pits her very well-defined (albeit occasionally silly) characters against each other is impressive to witness. I admire the imagination that goes into the inventing of the (intentionally) absurd sequence of events that drives the novel. And in her better work, that aspect comes to the forefront. Here, it takes a backseat.

Que atrevimiento el mío reseñar este libro. It truly takes a great deal of courage on my part to review this book.

“La vida es absurda y en su mayor parte, cómica. Cuando la comedia falla, lo que nos queda es la desgracia, no la tragedia.” Life is absurd and for the most part, comic. When the comedy fails, what remains is misfortune, not tragedy.

El ojo irónico-burlón de una escritora que admiro (¿venero?) que circuncida la vida, la psique, la hipocresía. Murdoch levantas las máscaras, retrata con minuciosidad, escribe con ojo crítico, muy crítico. Es dura y malévola, filosófica e implacable, y siempre inteligente. The ironic and mocking eye of a writer I admire (worship?) who circumscribes life, the psyche, and hypocrisy. Murdoch lifts the masks, portrays with meticulousness, writes with a critical eye, a very critical one. She is harsh and malevolent, philosophical and implacable, and always intelligent.

La historia de un matrimonio ¿perfecto?, sustentado en una gran mentira. La infidelidad de un hombre que ama a una amante tonta (retonta) y miente a su mujer, la ama de casa perfecta (doble tonta). Ambas sirven para alimentar su ego y navegar entre “lo sagrado y lo profano”. The story of a seemingly perfect marriage, sustained by a big lie. The infidelity of a man who loves a silly mistress and lies to his wife, the perfect housewife. Both serve to feed his ego and navigate between the sacred and the profane.

Monty, el vecino del matrimonio, está al tanto de esta gran mentira a punto de explotar y su creadora se desborda en una narrativa brutal de renuncias y desenmascaramientos, de las falsedades y de esperanzas, y de las muchas máscaras con que solemos vestir al amor. Monty, the neighbor of the married couple, is aware of this big lie on the verge of exploding and its creator overflows in a brutal narrative of renunciations and unmaskings, of falsehoods and hopes, and of the many masks with which we usually clothe love.

Plagada de personajes dispares y singulares, autoengañados, confusos, cuyas vidas se entrecruzan con magistralidad para develar lo complejo de la condición humana, un uso del lenguaje BRUTAL, de la A hasta la Z transité por una narrativa asfixiante y dolorosa, ingeniosa y buena, MUY BUENA, BUENÍSIMA, de la que no me pude separar, más bien, de la que no quería separarme. Filled with disparate and unique characters, self-deceived, confused, whose lives intersect masterfully to reveal the complexity of the human condition, a brutal use of language, from A to Z traversed by a suffocating and painful narrative, ingenious and good, VERY GOOD, EXCELLENT, from which I could not part, rather, from which I did not want to part.

Si quieres literatura de ALTO CALIBRE, el camino es Iris Murdoch, ¡CUIDADO! Te podría retratar. If you want high-quality literature, the way is Iris Murdoch, BEWARE! She might portray you.

The second book in my pursuit to read Iris Murdoch's entire body of work, The Sacred and Profane Love Machine, with its captivating title, lured me in. Just when I thought I'd read her bibliography in order (except for my introduction via The Sea, the Sea), starting with Under the Net (1954), this 1974 publication presented a 20-year literary growth gap.

I prefer starting a book with a sense of what to look for. Knowing the dual nature of the sacred and the profane, I suspected it would be a significant element in the narrative. Indeed, it involves adultery, with Blaise in a relationship with Harriette (the sacred) and Emily (the profane). Beyond that, there are other sources of duality, like the two sons and Monty's "split" selves. However, the primary idea of the double forms of love assigned to the two women seems too simplistic.

Blaise's "egoism and moral failing" are prominent throughout the story, to the point where I felt cheated by the ending. While trying to view it symbolically rather than just in terms of the plot, I surmise the outcome is more for Emily's character than Blaise's.

What interests me overall is the function of the "machine" mentioned frequently by IM and in the title. In the novel, there are many allusions to a non-specific "machine", such as during Blaise and Emily's conflict, Monty's mother's "great machine of maternal love", dreams as a "machine", Monty's internal monologue about a "machine" to avoid reality, and Blaise's monologue about the "machinery of [Harriet's] forgiveness".

This is an important concern as the "machine" is also mentioned in my favorite quote from The Sea, the Sea as "the great useless machine of my love".

On a less profound note, I couldn't decide whether to rate this 3 or 4 stars (3 because of Blaise, 4 because of IM's philosophy and everything else). I settled on 4 thanks to the ending. Edgar is my favorite character in this book.

"We are double edged blades, and every time we whet our virtue the return stroke straps our vice." — Journals, Henry Thoreau

I found Murdoch's The Sacred and Profane Love Machine to be an extremely agathokakological work. It contains the stark chasms of good and evil, impulse and morality, making it ineluctably Nietzschean. However, there is a suitable amount of blurring between base desire and love, and at times it exalts the parasitic relationship between these divisions. This reminds me of The Genealogy of Morals: All good things were once bad things, and from every original sin has grown original virtue. It seems this credo became Blaise Gavender's insidious ingress and denouement.

Blaise Gavender, the psychologist and protagonist, is almost a Wildean character, living as if one is made for exceptions and not rules. His imperious notion that one can simply carve out two separate and unrelated microcosms is based on this. Lord Henry Wotton finds his reiteration in the raler and jeremiads of Montague Small, and the Wildean effigy of youth is propagated in both Gavender's son David and his wayward love interest Kiki St. Loy.

The Picture of Dorian Gray's faint pederasty and pedagogy are found in Edward Demarnay's unrequited love and Oxford's mise en scene of gifted and moldable lads. To my delight, Murdoch included many classical references, and I found a dutiful nod to Orpheus and Eurydice. The narrative progresses like an economically oiled yet determined "machine", but slogging through the intermediate morass can feel a bit too operose. However, this is only until the potentialities are fully exhausted, driving some of the characters mad.
I've had a sustained intrigue with Iris Murdoch since seeing her on Thames Tv. Bashfully, this was my first of her novels. If it hadn't fallen into my lap, I might have started with The Black Prince or The Sea, The Sea. Nevertheless, after finishing this book, I felt as if I'd had a great elaborate and anticipatory amuse-bouche.

Todos los personajes de esta novela están terriblemente rotos y trastornados.

Y son todos bastante detestables. Algunos necesitan con desesperación que los amen y los salven, mientras que otros necesitan con locura amar y salvar.

Se abren y se entregan como flores en una noche de verano, perdonan lo imperdonable, confiesan lo inconfesable.

Todos están solos y sufren, todos secan sus heridas rojas al sol.

Es un tres porque Iris escribe que da miedo, pero se me hizo pesadito, repetitivo.

Las últimas 100 páginas son lo mejorcito del libro (junto con los relatos randómicos de los sueños de Monty), pero me aplanó un poco esa especie de deux ex machina (¿qué necesidad?).

Quizás la autora estaba tratando de dar un giro inesperado a la historia, pero para mí, resultó un tanto forzado.

A pesar de todo, la novela tiene cierta fuerza y capacidad de atrapar la atención, aunque no sea perfecta.

Quizás sea una lectura adecuada para aquellos que les gustan los relatos oscuros y tristes, llenos de personajes angustiados y conflictivos.