You’ve got a lot in common with Iris Murdoch. You’re in Oxford, probably studying here – as she did – and you’re reading the same Cherwell that Iris read. There’s a good chance you fancy yourself as a bit of a writer, or actor, or philosopher. But there’s something you don’t have in common: you’re not here as a world war breaks out. Your male friends will not be conscripted half way through their degrees, and you’re not worrying about how you can best be of use to the war effort after graduating.
I’ve always loved the film Iris: it places her wild Oxford life against her decline and eventual death from Alzheimer’s, and it has always moved me. I’ll admit that I’ve never made it through one of the acclaimed novels that she wrote in the middle of her life, but I was keen to read this collection of her letters and diaries and to get a feel for who Iris was as herself, at a similar stage in her life to where I am in mine.
A diary, written in the summer of 1939 as Iris toured Oxfordshire with a student theatre group, revealed much of life as an Oxford student 70 years ago. Not much has changed. Iris is frequently at the theatre before breakfast, works straight through the day, and often doesn’t find time for meals. Sound familiar? Her first set of letters are written to Frank Thompson, who studied at Oxford, left to join the war effort and was killed in June 1944. Our little problems and crises seem, suddenly, rather insignificant in comparison. As Iris observes, ‘we have so many urgent little problems of our own, that we have not time to look up and see the gathering clouds’. Her gathering clouds, of course, told of a coming war rather than an impending essay crisis.
And yet, serious as the situation was, she evidently retained a sense of humour, and her writing becomes increasingly to the point as she matures. She declares with cutting abruptness that ‘I should tell you that I have parted company with my virginity’ and – my favourite – ‘Darling the mice have been eating your letters’. She writes to Frank on a typewriter that she doesn’t get on with, despite ‘the lovely surprise when it does something wild and irresponsible on you like missing a letter or starting to write in red!’. The highlight of Frank’s replies (not including the fascinating accounts of his time abroad, obviously) is an impromptu lesson in modern Greek, featuring the charmingly irreverent translation of ‘What is that? That is a cat. Is that cat wild? No, he’s very docile’.
From the beginning of the book, we follow Iris growing from a naive undergraduate into a young woman genuinely very excited at the prospect of becoming a wife. In the second set of correspondance, with David Hicks, the impression given is one of unrequited love: the few letters that David did write in reply to Iris aren’t included in the book. In November 1945, having been apart for nearly seven years, the pair had a brief fling in London and became engaged. As they’re sent back to work in Europe, Iris writes regularly, only to receive a message in February calling the whole thing off. Her dignity shines through in her short, guarded reply to David’s rejection. ‘I don’t seem to have a real gift for making you happy, and others have it, that’s that.’
No doubt when you’ve finished reading this review you’ll immediately rush out and buy the book. But just in case you get distracted on your way, here’s what to take from it: we’re lucky to be alive now, and not in the time that Iris experienced. Follow your dreams – if you want to write, write until somebody reads it. And have a romantic correspondence – it’ll be fun and, who knows? Someday somebody might want to review your letters.
‘Iris Murdoch: A Writer at War’ by Peter J. Conradi is published by Short Books, RRP £16.99
