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womanroars 's review for:
The Black Prince
by Iris Murdoch
I really wanted to add Iris Murdoch to my list of amazing women authors, but it just didn't happen. Is this a 70's thing? I can't think of anything published in the 70's that I liked, but maybe I'm just really really disenchanted with this book.
It felt like it was written much earlier, the language was stuffy and so so British in the worst way. And the unreliability of the narrator just served to exacerbate the read.
I think that my main problem with this novel was the fact that it mixed a story with long ramblings on art and philosophy. I am sort of reminded by what little I read of Ayn Rand, which is never a good thing. The thing is: if you are going to have a story told by an asshole, why should I give any merit to what he says about art and life? I feel like it was supposed to be all deep and meaningful (and in a different setting perhaps it would be), but the teller made it seem pretentious and navel-gazing, which added even further to the feeling of boredom and disgust this novel left me with.
Should I have read The Sea, The Sea instead? I have no desire to read anything else by this woman, but I hate the feeling of having no idea why other people who I totally respect as readers absolutely love her works.
I did have fun with the actual physical process of reading this book though. I had bought an old used thoroughly battered copy (one of those mass market paperbacks I love so much, the paper is rough and familiar and you can hold it open with one hand!) and fairly soon the cover ripped off. I would have been disturbed if I had been enjoying the story but I didn't much care. Then when I took it to work I realized it was still too big to carry around in my uniform (man I love my Nook even more now) so I ripped away the pages I had already read, and just started ripping them off as I read them. I felt like Cheryl Strayed in Wild when she was ripping the pages as she went to lessen the load she had to carry on the trail and fed them to the fire. I would have liked to burn these pages, seeing as they were so infuriatingly boring.
It felt like it was written much earlier, the language was stuffy and so so British in the worst way. And the unreliability of the narrator just served to exacerbate the read.
I think that my main problem with this novel was the fact that it mixed a story with long ramblings on art and philosophy. I am sort of reminded by what little I read of Ayn Rand, which is never a good thing. The thing is: if you are going to have a story told by an asshole, why should I give any merit to what he says about art and life? I feel like it was supposed to be all deep and meaningful (and in a different setting perhaps it would be), but the teller made it seem pretentious and navel-gazing, which added even further to the feeling of boredom and disgust this novel left me with.
Should I have read The Sea, The Sea instead? I have no desire to read anything else by this woman, but I hate the feeling of having no idea why other people who I totally respect as readers absolutely love her works.
I did have fun with the actual physical process of reading this book though. I had bought an old used thoroughly battered copy (one of those mass market paperbacks I love so much, the paper is rough and familiar and you can hold it open with one hand!) and fairly soon the cover ripped off. I would have been disturbed if I had been enjoying the story but I didn't much care. Then when I took it to work I realized it was still too big to carry around in my uniform (man I love my Nook even more now) so I ripped away the pages I had already read, and just started ripping them off as I read them. I felt like Cheryl Strayed in Wild when she was ripping the pages as she went to lessen the load she had to carry on the trail and fed them to the fire. I would have liked to burn these pages, seeing as they were so infuriatingly boring.