The simple truth is that no one has ever written about the passions, the sexual passions, in the way Iris Murdoch did. The book is replete with symbols – the convent and its wall, the lake, the tower, and of course the bell itself. I think this is partly because it is such an elemental book, by which I mean that the actions and characters seem to have such depth to them. Many of the scenes have stayed in my mind over the last 30 years. The Bell is a marvellous and memorable book.
Much as Fr Copleston (obituary here) remains a huge hero for me, and much as I admired Mrs Bednarowska, having re-read The Bell, I think Iris Murdoch’s reputation is secure. “Her novels?” said Freddie Copleston, when I mentioned Murdoch to him. “Every year she writes a book and sends me a copy, with “To dearest Dorothy” written on it and every year I think, oh God, have I got to read this? And what on earth am I going to say to her when I have done so?” was The Bedder’s comment. However, though Iris admired Dorothy, the compliment was not returned. In fact Dorothy’s sitting room in Wolvercote, where she gave her inspirational tutorials, was lined with signed first editions of Dame Iris’s work, all containing breathless dedications.
At Oxford I was blessed to have the late great Dorothy Bednarowska (obituaries here and here) as my tutor: Dorothy had for many years been dean of Saint Anne’s College, and had known Iris Murdoch well. By the time I had finished my first year at university, I had read that too and all her other works. I was extremely lucky to have had an inspirational English teacher, Fr J F Morris, and he too was an admirer of Iris Murdoch, and often used to speak of The Philosopher’s Pupil as a favourite book of his.
In this spirit I recently returned to Iris Murdoch’s The Bell, which I first read as a sixth former. Every now and then I am tempted to re-read a novel that delighted me in the distant past, to see if it really was as good as my memory suggests.
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