I've had Under the Net on my to-be-read (tbr) list for a long time. In hindsight, I really should've read it earlier. As it turns out, I thoroughly enjoyed it.

Right from the moment I began reading, I noticed how incredibly funny it is. It should have been obvious - it clearly states on the cover that it's a comic novel, and indeed it is. I was immediately reminded of Kingsley Amis. Later on, as I delved deeper, it also brought to mind J. P. Donleavy. And today, as I was finishing the book, I thought of the early Samuel Beckett novel, Murphy.

Those novelists wrote with great energy about characters like Murdoch's Jake Donaghue, men who lead frenzied and bleak existences that they can't quite seem to control. The difference, and what I found truly impressive, is that Murdoch was able to shape such a character and so successfully fashion a novel around the male point of view. She handles her materials extremely well.

Moreover, she makes it a lot of fun for us to follow the madcap movements of this wonderful fool and schlemiel as he traipses through London and Paris, learning to find his direction in life. About halfway through, it transforms into a caper novel and becomes even funnier.

Jake stands outside the gates of a motion picture studio, wondering how on earth to get in: "If you have ever tried to get into a film studio you will know that the chances of your turning out to be an Unauthorized Person are very high indeed. I am myself a sort of professional Unauthorized Person; I am sure I have been turned out of more places than any other member of the English intelligentsia."

But Murdoch was a philosopher before she was a novelist, and near the end, she provides a serious side to Jake. He comes to see that each separate moment of his life has contributed to creating the reality of himself, standing still, finally, on a London street that is really a crossroads. He recognizes that each moment can be pointed out, just as each frame of a film is accented individually at speed to make time - and his life - flow. Iris Murdoch has truly spun some fine moments of character, comedy, and narrative situations into a really good novel.

It seems to me that the majority of male authors tend to have male central characters, while female authors often choose female central characters, especially when the novel is presented in the first person. Additionally, it appears that female authors, in general, create more believable female central characters, and male authors, likewise in general, craft more believable male characters, particularly when it comes to central characters and especially in the first person narrative. This phenomenon shouldn't come as a surprise.

Having said that, this novel, in my opinion, is the best exception to this supposed rule. There were certain acute problems that I had with the ideas and motivations of the central male character. However, aside from those issues, Murdoch does an *incredible* job of constructing a believable and fascinating male central character. Oh, and let's not forget that the novel itself is extremely good as well.

It manages to break free from the typical pattern and offer a unique and engaging reading experience that defies expectations.

If one has good reasons for an action, one should not be deterred from doing it just because one may also have bad reasons. This life philosophy leads Jake Donoghue into what Kiernan Ryan succinctly describes as “a bizarre erotic comedy of errors.” Jake is compulsive, restless, penniless, and in love. Similar to Salinger’s Holden Caulfield and his angst-ridden journey around NY, Jake takes us on an existential adventure in London and Paris. He attempts to figure out what he thinks, what love truly is, and where his life is headed. He is quite successful at avoiding jobs but not so much at translating trashy French novels. Jake comes to the realization that words are unreliable. Language adheres to a subjective “net,” while the real world slips “under the net.” This is, incidentally, Murdoch’s sly nod to Wittgenstein, who used the net metaphor to contend that truth cannot be fully expressed in words. The philosopher explained that language obscures the truth. From this perspective, Jake’s life – or any life for that matter – can only be lived, not explained. And like all of us, Jake searches for the deeper meaning of his life, but language gets in his way. In his conversations with the woman he loves, Anna (who loves Hugo), Hugo (who loves Sadie), Sadie (who loves Jake), and Finn (who loves drinking), Jake notices that language is vulnerable. Everyone distorts, exaggerates, and tries to manipulate others. Jake gets closest to the truth when he falls into a silent, dreamy, unprofitable reflection that he enjoys more than anything in the world. He finds peace in the company of the inscrutable Mrs. Tinckham and her wordless cats. He finds comfort by taking the fabulous - and also wordless - hound, Mr. Mars, for his daily walk. Truth lies in actions, not language. But Jake loves literature, and obviously, one cannot have literature without words. For a long time, he hides behind other people’s words by translating smut. However, if you’re patient with Jake, you’ll see that eventually he finds his own words, which he then uses to tell us about the maze of misconceptions in which his selfish, ego-centered ways had landed him.

In doing a little prereading about Iris Murdoch before attempting her first novel, inspired by Liz Dexter’s (librofulltime.wordpress.com) Iris Murdoch readalong, I was growing intimidated. Nominated for the Booker six times and winning with The Sea, The Sea, and being a philosophy teacher at Oxford! This did not bode well for a simple, fun read. However, it turned out to be just that.

Philosophical icons like Kant and Plato are mentioned in passing, and Hugo and Jake’s conversations skirt philosophical issues. Towards the end, even truth and God come up, but these instances didn’t dent the narrative momentum.

On Jake’s first entrance, I thought he was going to be some sulky misanthrope trying to get one over on everyone. But he turned out to be surprisingly moral and romantic in both his male and female relationships. There is an element of mystery surrounding a film and a manuscript, and several madcap scenes involving dogs, breaking and entering, and escapes had me chuckling. Mads the German Shepherd is a particular favorite in the book. Literature and film are represented, both high and low, as well as politics in the form of Lefty and his particular brand of socialism. Iris Murdoch clearly knew her London. Her descriptions of the city and its nightlife, as well as the descriptive passages of Paris, were so evocative and made me want to fly to Paris instantly.

Most of the characters were endearing or at least interesting in a caddish way. Finn, Jake’s Irish friend, is less well-rounded than expected, but individuals like Mrs. Tinckham more than make up for that. I’ve heard it as a criticism that Murdoch introduces characters and then abandons them, but I’m one who is quite happy not to have everything tidied up at the end of the novel. Bring on the odd balls and bit players!

The novel follows Jake as he makes mistake after mistake because of the assumptions he has about so many things, his blindness to who people really are and what they want. And when, by the end of the novel, he is more or less right back where he started, it is at least with a greater awareness of both others’ wants and needs and his own.

I’m so pleased that my first experience with Iris Murdoch was a positive one and hope to read more of her novels next year, whether I manage to follow the readalong or not. Next up is ‘The Flight from the Enchanter’.

“Under the Net” (1954) was Murdoch's first published novel. It is a light-hearted and comic novel that contains several uproarious scenes.

The protagonist, Jake Donaghue, is a slothful writer who earns his living by translating bestsellers, sacrificing his own artistic talent in the process. Jake is constantly driven around by his blunders and misunderstandings. However, in the end, he seems to attain a certain level of self-awareness.

The novel features a fast-paced plot, well-developed characters, and also pays attention to moral issues. Like all of Murdoch's novels, this one reflects her concerns with philosophy, politics, and language. But this does not make the novel dull or pretentious.

Cheryl Bove explains Murdoch's moral philosophy as follows: “Due to egoism, a spiritual void in the Western consciousness, and the growing inadequacy of language for communication, the modern individual often perceives others as extensions of the self. As a result, the individual remains in a state of spiritual immaturity, with his or her consciousness clouded by illusions.” This description fits Jake Donaghue perfectly. According to Murdoch, in order to gain some self-knowledge, one must strive to resist the temptations of egoism.

“Under the Net” could be an excellent starting point for those interested in reading Murdoch.

I vividly remember those childhood days when I would binge-watch Cartoon Network from dawn till dusk. The vibrant and lively world of cartoons was my escape and source of entertainment. However, as the clock mercilessly struck 9 o'clock in the evening, everything changed. The colourful images and hilarious characters vanished in an instant, making way for TNT's black and white old films. At that tender age, I was completely befuddled by these films. I could understand the language and had a basic idea of the plot, but I simply couldn't fathom how adults could enjoy such complex and colourless stories. The meanings seemed far too elusive for me to grasp.

This is precisely the feeling that pervaded my experience while reading this entire novel. It was as if I was trapped in the mindset of a child, constantly being tantalized by a rather bawdy humour, only to be bombarded later with a plethora of convoluted ideas and overly detailed descriptions of things that, quite frankly, held little interest for me.

I struggle to see the purpose of this book. I've had my fill of books that attempt to imitate life and imply that it's all meaningless. We all get it, or so I thought. Nevertheless, I must give credit where credit is due. The writing style throughout this book has been a consistent and delicious treat. Iris Murdoch may have her flaws, but there's no denying that the woman is incredibly sharp and witty.

I read quite a bit of Murdoch a long time ago. At that time, I had a certain impression of his works. So, I really didn't expect this particular piece to be so funny! Jake, the protagonist, is yet another useless guy in his early twenties. He is full of privilege, as if he is born with a silver spoon in his mouth. However, despite having such advantages, he is still trying to figure out where to go with his life. Instead of taking responsibility for himself, he sponges off as many people as possible.

Jake gets into all kinds of scraps and wind ups. He seems to have a penchant for getting into trouble, and his actions often lead to comical and chaotic situations. Moreover, he idolizes all the wrong people, which further complicates his already muddled life. Multiple times, he barely escapes from some tricky situations, which keeps the readers on the edge of their seats.

Overall, this is an easy read and a fun one. It doesn't require too much mental effort, but it can bring a lot of entertainment. The story is engaging and the characters are vivid, making it a great choice for those who are looking for a light-hearted and enjoyable read.

I put aside the book I was reading and rang for Jeeves. As he shimmied into existence beside me, I gave him a scathing look: I wanted him to know I was miffed.

"Jeeves!" I said. "You remember you recommended this tome to me?" I showed it to him.

"Ah, yes, sir." He said. "You said you wanted to read serious literature, and I thought you would find this one enjoyable. Miss Murdoch is thought of very highly in literary circles, sir."

"I don't care what they think of her!" I bellowed. "If you ask me, the woman is batty. I have never read such utter bilge in my life!"

Jeeves was quiet. I glanced up at him, and found the corner of his mouth turned down one-sixteenth of an inch. Blast the chap, he was sneering at me!

"Jeeves," I said, steel in my voice, "I'll thank you not to laugh at me."

"Oh, no, sir," the man was all apologies immediately. "Such behaviour is furthest from my mind, I assure you."

"Then why were you sneering? Don't deny it!" I cut off his objections before he could mouth them. "You were smiling. I saw it."

"Well, sir, I must confess that I was a trifle amused by your forthright opinion of Miss Murdoch's work and her person. I was just trying to imagine what kind of impression it would create on Goodreads if you expressed it there. I am sorry if I caused anguish, sir." Jeeves said.

Now, those of you who have been religiously following these chronicles of mine know that Jeeves has been infesting that blasted book reviewing site, Goodreads, for quite some time. I had a brief stint there and found that it was not suited to chappies like me who read books only for enjoyment.

"Never mind those blighters at Goodreads! What do you feel, Jeeves? Did you like it?" I asked.

"Actually, sir, my taste runs more towards philosophical works by the great masters such as Spinoza. I read fiction very sparingly, so my opinion is necessarily limited by my lack of experience. But from my imperfect viewpoint, I would count this novel as an accomplished work, sir." He said.

"Accomplished work my foot!" I exploded. "This tale of a dotty bounder who wanders around London, going on one continuous toot - I mean, there is hardly a scene where he is not having a drink - and getting the raspberry from one popsy after the other, until he winds up on the road with an aged Alsatian dog is considered an 'accomplished' work?"

Jeeves's tone was reproachful. "Reduced to the bare essentials, sir, any work of art will look puerile. It is not what is written, but how it is written that matters in all forms of high literature. Interpolating a philosophical argument into a picaresque novel, and carrying it off without the pace flagging or the thread being lost, requires quite a deft hand. Miss Murdoch has accomplished it seamlessly, sir."

"Jeeves," I said reproachfully. "This is pure apple sauce. Philosophy? What philosophy is there in this load of tripe other than the nonsense the hero - what is his name? Yes, Jake Donaghue - and his friend Hugo Belfounder keeps on jabbering about, and which he had the crust to publish as a book? I thought the whole thing was a joke. No wonder, in the novel itself, that the book didn't sell. And what did you mean by that word - pic-something?"

Jeeves was quiet, and when I looked up, I found that he was smirking again. Seeing me watching, he immediately went back to his usual impassive self. "Picaresque means episodic, sir," he explained. "A type of narrative in which the protagonist moves from happening to happening. In this novel, the author has created the incidents in such a way as to make them traverse the whole range from the humdrum to the fantastic without straining the reader's credibility, and without losing sight of the underlying philosophy. A creditable achievement, sir."

"Jeeves," I said in a strained tone of voice. "Can you tell me what is this philosophy that you are going on about?"

"Logical atomism, sir." Jeeves was ready with his answer. "As explained in the great philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein's Tractus Logico-Philosophicus. Newtonian mechanics, the philosopher says, capture the world through the equivalent of a net, or many nets. The mesh may be fine or coarse, and its holes of different shapes, but it will always be regular, will always bring description ‘to a unified form’. But the world will always defy our descriptions and slip 'under the net' - that is where the novel's title comes from, sir."

I was by this time gasping like a landed fish, but he went on.

"Mr. Donaghue is the one who is constantly in search for form, sir. If you recall, he says many a time he hates contigency. He is contrasted with Mr. Belfounder, who is not interested in any grand theory, but sees only the details. You must also have observed, sir, that Mr. Belfounder is a success at whatever he does without trying while Mr. Donaghue struggles till the very end, when he learns to let go of his net. Mrs. Tinckham's cat who manages finally to mate with the Siamese is a fine touch, sir."

I raised my hand. "Jeeves!" I croaked. "Enough! You are telling me that the story of this bozo doing daft things like skinny-dipping at two o'clock in the morning in the Thames and his pal blowing up studio sets is somehow connected to some deep philosophy?"

"Undoubtedly, sir."

"Then that's it! I am done with serious literature for the nonce. Soon you will be telling me that me and Pongo Twisteton and Freddie Widgeon and the rest of the chaps stealing policemen's helmets during Boat Race Night is also somehow connected to Spinoza." I leaned back in my chair. "Gosh, I wish I had Rex West's latest whodunit. From all reports, it's a humdinger."

Jeeves gave a deferential cough. "Will this be the volume that you are enquiring about, sir?" He extended a book to me. The Secret of the Bloodless Corpse by Rex West!

"Jeeves! Where did you get it?" I asked.

"The bookseller just delivered it, sir. I heard you discussing this book with the other gentlemen from the Drones, and took the liberty of ordering a copy. I anticipated that you would be in need of some light reading after finishing Miss Murdoch's book. I hope it was not too much of a liberty, sir."

"Jeeves! Liberty? You did exactly right!" I cooed. "You are a life-saver! One in a million!"

"I endeavour to give satisfaction, sir," said Jeeves.

An Unpredictable and Charming Novel

I had never delved into the works of Iris Murdoch until a couple of weeks ago. It was in a second-hand shop in Venice that a little hardcover 1955 reprint caught my eye. (Interestingly, it was just a week before the extra-high aqua alta a few days ago. I like to think that I rescued this lovely little book from an untimely submersion in the lagoon.) As I opened the cover, eager to inhale the musty scent of the aging, thick, yellowing hardcover paper (mnmnmnmn), I noticed that the novel was dedicated to Raymond Queneau. That was the deciding factor - it was time to explore the world of Murdoch.

And I was not let down. Despite the very British tone and the intimately described London locales that dominate most of the novel, there is a strange motif of absurd coincidence (perhaps a parody of fate?) in the episodic story of our protagonist, Jake. A writer with frayed nerves, he chooses translation over writing and goes to great lengths to avoid responsibility, work, and rent. When the woman whose rooms he shares (alongside his Irish sidekick Finn) kicks them out, he embarks on a search for a new rent-free situation. I relished this blend of British realism and French surrealism, with its silly coincidences, numerous serio-comic love triangles, flamboyant yet somewhat stock characters, political rallies, dognapping, horse betting, music, mime, and film motifs. The general tension between realism and absurdity that emerged seemed, to me, to be the essence of Jake's otherwise pointless, yet highly entertaining, adventures. At times, it even had a Kafkaesque feel as Jake moved from one space to another, much like K. in The Castle. This similarity has piqued my interest in rereading that novel.

I also picked up a paperback copy of Murdoch's A Severed Head in the same shop. I'm looking forward to reading that as well. But perhaps I'll take a break with a silly sci-fi or horror novel first and then return to the good stuff. Only time will tell. For now, I'm off to browse my shelves...

I’m at an age where the thought of revisiting writers I once adored but haven't read in a long time has crossed my mind. And just the day after I decided that Iris Murdoch should be on that list, I unearthed a stash of Murdoch first editions in the Tokyo book district. They were being offered, inexplicably, for a very reasonable price. I lean more towards the concept of synchronicity than Divine Intervention, but sometimes one can't help but wonder.

It's been approximately thirty years since I last read Murdoch, and even then, it was only a few novels and not this one. I recalled her as intelligent and even a bit devious, but I had forgotten that she could also be wickedly humorous.

Under the Net is the first of her twenty-six novels, published in 1954 when she was thirty-five. It's a bold start. The first-person narrator, James (Jake) Donaghue, a wastrel, writer, and translator whom I couldn't help but like, has been evicted from Madge Casement's house on Earls Court Road, where he has lived rent-free for eighteen months with his 'cousin' Finn (whom people often mistake for his servant). Other Goodreads reviewers have compared Jake to Holden Caulfield and John Self, and I can see the resemblance, but ultimately he is unique. His quest to find a new place to stay quickly becomes complicated in a vividly realized London. One could create an accurate map of Soho and The City based on Murdoch's descriptions, and central Paris in the two chapters set there, as Jake wanders around chasing a shoeless woman on Bastille Day night, is nearly as sharply depicted. Jake gets entangled with a cast of memorable characters: Anna, a singer and briefly a mime artist and Jake's former lover; Anna's glamorous film-star sister, Sadie; Hugo, a philosopher turned fireworks manufacturer who loves one sister and is loved by the other; Sammy Starfield, a wealthy bookie; an anti-materialist Jewish philosopher on Goldhawk Road; a motherly, chain-smoking, cat-loving newsagent on Charlotte Street; and the loopy firebrand leader of the New Independent Socialist Party. Typical Murdoch lineup, I suppose, but in its early form and without any suicides.

What’s Madge up to anyway? Madge is being double-crossed by Sammy, who dumps her for Sadie. Sammy uses Madge and Sadie uses Sammy to get her revenge on Hugo and make a fortune. . . . I began to see the whole picture.

Well, that's from page 136. It turns out not to be the whole picture, but that was the apparent state of affairs at that moment, a reasonable deduction at that point in the story, which incidentally includes the crazy kidnapping-for-ransom of a 14-year-old Alsatian star of many animal films from Sammy's flat.

If you're interested in this kind of thing, Under the Net is the only Murdoch title in the 1998 Modern Library editorial board's list of the 100 Best English-language novels published since 1900, ranked #95, between Wide Sargasso Sea and Sophie’s Choice. And in 2010, it was the only Murdoch title in Lev Grossman and Richard Lacayo's selection of Time magazine's 100 best English-language novels published since 1923.

Don't read it for those accolades, though. Read it to witness the brilliant first spark of a novelist who will joyfully shatter your expectations with every turn of the page.

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