Meri, meri : romaani (urspr publ 1978; utgåvan 1981)

Booker Prize winning novel by Iris Murdoch. It is a good one. The Sea, the Sea, why the title. Accordingly it is from the cry of the Greeks in the Persian war when they sighted sea water. This is also referenced by Jules Verne in Journey to the Center of the Earth. The sea does play a significant roll in this large book. The first paragraph is a description of the sea (written beautifully) but the second paragraph casts the hook. What, what? we ask. The story is the memoir of a retired theater director with the largest ego ever. He has retired and moved to this strange house on this rocky spot in the north sea. The story starts out with him being quite alone but then all or a lot of the people from his past start trooping in either in groups or one by one.

I found the main character to be absolutely maddening. He is totally full of himself, detestable and the way he treats or thinks of women is deplorable. He is irritating. And does he grow at all in this novel? Maybe, maybe. This is a long book 500 plus pages but it is easy to read and goes along at a good clip, as fast as the crashing waves hitting the rocks of Charles Arrowby's home. The book is about obsession and the delusion that we can create out of our memories especially if we are 100% self-absorbed. ( )

My copy of Iris Murdoch’s The Sea, The Sea features this blurb on the cover: “A rich, crowded, magical love story.” At first glance, the aptest word here is “crowded.”

Theatre professional Charles Arrowby has retired to a tiny village on an obscure northern coast of the U.K. He starts keeping a diary in his newly-purchased home, recounting his explorations of his little corner of rock and sea. But in no time at all, his secluded house is as crowded as the London he left behind: with old lovers, their jealous husbands, one runaway son, and mysterious cousin James.

I shouldn’t even begin to attempt to untangle the romantic mess Arrowby is in, but here’s the quick and dirty: it just so happens that his one childhood love is in the same village – with her bully of a husband. Arrowby’s plan to spirit her away turns into a three-ring circus fueled by obsession and wine. The only fully sane and serene person seems to be cousin James, who remains, unfortunately, on the periphery until the end.

All the different flavors of love found here, straight and gay, December and May, seem to dissolve like the sunset over the sea when faced with the unfaded brilliance of Arrowby’s childhood ties – to his first sweetheart, but also to his cousin.

It’s a compelling romp, and Murdoch writes Arrowby with tongue firmly in cheek. He’s the sort of fussy fellow who makes fun of his friends for their overblown ideas about love, then spouts his own a few pages later. But as the story careens like a drunken driver between comedy and tragedy, it actually does become rich, and yes, even magical. ( )

I thought it was a fascinating story of self absorption and obsession and the ingenious, mad ways in which we view events through our biases and self interests, and how these views change or adapt with the disclosure of new information and our incremental development. ( )

A brilliant, clever and winding book, disintegrating the freedom of the 1960s in wave after wave of intelligent criticisms. At times this is a very strange read, but the fantasy fits the narrative. ( )

The Sea, the sea by Irish Murdoch or What is wrong with the Booker.

Written after 28 of 502 pages.

Of course you are going to want to know why I’m not reading another page of this book. Of course, you are going to want to know why, should I ever find myself near to Murdoch – and I mean Iris, whose crimes against humanity already strike me as not so far away as you might think, from the other one’s – and should I have a loaded shooting device at hand, I will ask her, donning an insincere smile intending to look pacific, what the capital crime punishment is hereabouts. Of course I will be thinking exactly what you think I will be thinking.

Why? Because she fucking uses the words ‘of course’ all the time, of course.

Of course, of course….you’re going to raise the ‘but it isn’t her, it’s her character using the words’ argument, aren’t you? Well, some of you. Go away. I don’t want you to finish reading the rest of this. We could all do that, couldn’t we? Write crap in the first person and get it published. Of course, we could.

Get it published, did I say? Heck, we can do better than that. We can get it a Booker Prize. Big mistake. If I’d read the back cover, I never would have started this book. That’s the first thing about any book. Check that it hasn’t won the Booker…it hasn’t?…tick, read.

Of course, I’m not counting, but:

p. 24 Of course it is quite impossible to buy fresh fish…
p. 25 Of course they do not…..
p. 25 Of course the notion of growing herbs….
p. 27 Basil is of course the king of herbs
p. 28 And of course we acted plays too.
p. 28 Of course I loved my mother
p. 29 I went into the theatre of course…
p. 29 3 lines later, mark you: I had of course other motives.

For fuck’s sake. I wouldn’t even mind if we agreed it was hastily written trash. Maybe that’s what the Booker Prize is for?

But, of course, that isn’t what you are going to say, is it? And you know who you are. All fifteen or so of you. You’re going to talk about how carefully each word was selected by this skilled craftsman, this writer of literature. How she mulled over every word – for years, probably – picking at them, adding, subtracting, reconsidering. Of course she did.

I check the ‘about’ link on the Booker Prize, page: ‘The Man Booker Prize promotes the finest in fiction by rewarding the very best book of the year. The prize is the world’s most important literary award and has the power to transform the fortunes of authors and even publishers….’

Important, then. Maybe too important for merit to enter the equation. Or maybe this was just some seriously crap year for books.

‘The Man Booker judges are selected from the country’s finest critics, writers and academics to maintain the consistent excellence of the prize.’ Well, that’s okay, then. If that’s who selects the prize winner, we can sleep easy, as we are then reassured:

One of the main reasons for the Man Booker Prize’s pre-eminence in the world is the known integrity of its judging process. There has never been even a whisper of bribery or corruption or influence, as with other internationally known prizes….Every effort is made to achieve a balance between the judges of gender, articulacy and role, so that the panel includes a literary critic, an academic, a literary editor, a novelist and a major figure. Then, once they are appointed, they are in charge without the slightest interference from the administrator or the sponsor. From this has grown the total independence and balance that lies at the heart of the choices made. It is that which gives the Man Booker Prize its very special distinction among literary prizes the world over.

Being a compulsive researcher, I couldn’t just leave it there. What was so wrong with the books of 1978 that The sea, the sea got the BP guernsey?

Looking at the goodreads most popular list of books published in 1978 I see, for example,

rest here:

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