Under the Net, by Iris Murdoch
Under the Net, by Iris Murdoch
Here we were, sitting in Earl’s Court Road on a dusty sunny July morning on two suitcases, and where were we to go next? This was what always happened. I would be at pains to put my universe in order and set it ticking, when suddenly it would burst again into a mess of the same poor pieces, and Finn and I would be on the run. I say my universe, not ours, because I sometimes feel that Finn has very little inner life. I mean no disrespect to him in saying this; some have and some haven’t. I connect this too with his truthfulness. Subtle people, like myself, can see too much ever to give a straight answer. Aspects have always been my trouble. And I connect it with his aptness to make objective statements when these are the last thing that one wants, like a bright light on one’s headache. It may be, though, that Finn misses his inner life, and that that is why he follows me about, as I have a complex one and highly differentiated. Anyhow, I count Finn as an inhabitant of my universe, and cannot conceive that he has one containing me; and this arrangement seems restful for both of us.
There’s a certain inherent quirkiness about 20th century Britain that runs from PG Wodehouse to Kingsley Amis to Monty Python and Keeping Up Appearances, a mixture of absurdism and unflappability that can be either uproariously funny or just strange. Under the Net walks the line for a bit and ends up in the “just strange” category.
It’s described on the cover as a “comic novel”. The comic elements are there. The protagonist, Jake Donaghue, is an intellectual writer whose intelligence clashes with his poverty and his helplessness in negotiating the real world. Comparisons with Bertie Wooster are apt, especially since Donaghue is accompanied by a servant/manager named Finn. But the comparisons fail as they and their friends-Dave, Lefty, Hugo-rather than being happy go lucky drones, are impressively solemn, philosophical and wordy. They talk a lot, but they don’t reveal enough to make their personalities distinctive.
Several times in the book, Jake makes a good amount of money, or is given a chance to do so, and he loses it again or turns the opportunity away, without ever thinking through why. He makes decisions on a whim, and while sometimes the decisions lead to contrived comic moments, as when he impulsively steals a performing Hollywood dog or goes swimming in the Thames while several sheets to the wind, sometimes they lead to avoidable tragedy, as when he loses several interesting women, gives away money for nothing, or takes a degrading hospital job on a whim and gets the sack on an equal and opposite whim.
The book eventually ends in mid-note, without a satisfying climax or resolution. The characters simply continue doing what they’ve been doing, without much hope for anything changing, except superficially. I got the distinct feeling of a thick, gloomy base note threatening to drown out a veneer of lightness, as if a single coat of bright orange paint was placed over a dark olive drab.
Here we were, sitting in Earl’s Court Road on a dusty sunny July morning on two suitcases, and where were we to go next? This was what always happened. I would be at pains to put my universe in order and set it ticking, when suddenly it would burst again into a mess of the same poor pieces, and Finn and I would be on the run. I say my universe, not ours, because I sometimes feel that Finn has very little inner life. I mean no disrespect to him in saying this; some have and some haven’t. I connect this too with his truthfulness. Subtle people, like myself, can see too much ever to give a straight answer. Aspects have always been my trouble. And I connect it with his aptness to make objective statements when these are the last thing that one wants, like a bright light on one’s headache. It may be, though, that Finn misses his inner life, and that that is why he follows me about, as I have a complex one and highly differentiated. Anyhow, I count Finn as an inhabitant of my universe, and cannot conceive that he has one containing me; and this arrangement seems restful for both of us.
There’s a certain inherent quirkiness about 20th century Britain that runs from PG Wodehouse to Kingsley Amis to Monty Python and Keeping Up Appearances, a mixture of absurdism and unflappability that can be either uproariously funny or just strange. Under the Net walks the line for a bit and ends up in the “just strange” category.
It’s described on the cover as a “comic novel”. The comic elements are there. The protagonist, Jake Donaghue, is an intellectual writer whose intelligence clashes with his poverty and his helplessness in negotiating the real world. Comparisons with Bertie Wooster are apt, especially since Donaghue is accompanied by a servant/manager named Finn. But the comparisons fail as they and their friends-Dave, Lefty, Hugo-rather than being happy go lucky drones, are impressively solemn, philosophical and wordy. They talk a lot, but they don’t reveal enough to make their personalities distinctive.
Several times in the book, Jake makes a good amount of money, or is given a chance to do so, and he loses it again or turns the opportunity away, without ever thinking through why. He makes decisions on a whim, and while sometimes the decisions lead to contrived comic moments, as when he impulsively steals a performing Hollywood dog or goes swimming in the Thames while several sheets to the wind, sometimes they lead to avoidable tragedy, as when he loses several interesting women, gives away money for nothing, or takes a degrading hospital job on a whim and gets the sack on an equal and opposite whim.
The book eventually ends in mid-note, without a satisfying climax or resolution. The characters simply continue doing what they’ve been doing, without much hope for anything changing, except superficially. I got the distinct feeling of a thick, gloomy base note threatening to drown out a veneer of lightness, as if a single coat of bright orange paint was placed over a dark olive drab.