manji

'Demoyte's books were all behind glass, so that the room was full of reflections. Demoyte was a connoisseur of books. Mor, who was none, had long ago been barred from the library. Mor like to tea a book apart as he read it, breaking the back, thumbing and turning down the pages, commenting and underlining. He liked to have his books close to him, upon a table, upon the floor, at least upon open shelves. Seeing them so near and so destroyed, he could feel that they were now almost inside his head. Demoyte's books seemed a different kind of entity. Yet he liked to see them too, elegant, stiff and spotless, gilded and calved, books to be held gently in the hand and admired, and which recalled to mind the fact of which Mor was usually oblivious that a book is a thing and not just a collection of thoughts.'

- Iris Murdoch

The Sandcastle

(Page 32)

Ordinarily whilst reading a book, you will find yourself rooting for at least one of the characters.

Hoping with all your heart/bones/nerve endings they will succeed and come out the victor by the story's conclusion.

Or at least slightly better off than their more heinous partners in crime.

And this is a comforting literary strategy as it gives you a sense of purpose within the narrative.

You become not merely an observer but an active supporter of the characters' endeavours and it pulls you through the story.

Something essential for any novel.

This is not something i found within Iris Murdoch's, The Sandcastle.

The characters within were not necessarily unlikeable but merely unsubstantial.

They lacked any qualities that would draw you in and develop an emotional response towards them.

The closest i got was a feeling of mild pity towards the main character, Bill Mor, a run-of-the-mill family man unsatisfied with his lot in life and too much of a coward to really change anything. 

This is not an unfamiliar situation.

We're all pretty suburban and terrified of change but i feel we possess more depth than Murdoch was willing to instil within her main characters.

This is my second attempt with the works of Iris Murdoch.

My first was her 1958 novel, The Bell, a book i only last a few chapters with.

I think perhaps i will try again, as i feel there's more to gain from this particular writer.

Her style of writing is enough alone to keep me coming back for more.

It reminds me of Angela Carter but with mostly all the wackadoodle taken out and little more stunted Brit forced back in.

That sounds pretty bad but it's actually lovely to read.

I promise.

The hours between finishing and selecting a new book to read are some of the most exciting and infuriating hours to partake in.

Most of the time i find it quite easy to choose what to read.

My house is full of books.

Shelves upon shelves of them.

And the numbers are only increasing.

But if my mood has taken a wrong turn at Indecisive Village then there's no way i'll be able to make a choice.

And i hate that feeling.

Loathe it.

I need to read at night.

I just do.

Even if it's only a few pages, i instantly feel better and more relaxed.

Like there's a very hungry little paper monster in my stomach and he must be fed.

And when i can't find something to satisfy him, he gets very upset indeed.

Tantrums are thrown.

Monster feet are stomped.

Fangs are bared.

It's not good.

This is usually when i'll turn to collections of short stories.

They're short but sweet and keep the paper monster sated.

But i had a small problem the night i'd finished The Sandcastle.

I couldn't be bothered getting out of bed to find a volume of short stories - i am the mayor of Slothtown, nice to meet you - and the only one i had above my bed that i hadn't read yet was Phillip Pullman's Grimm Tales and i really wasn't in the mood for those.

Couldn't tell you why.

I'm just fussy i guess.

So, slumped face down on my pillows, full of lethargic despair and about to have a paper monster huffing fit of my own, i suddenly remembered i had some manga above my head!

Hiroaki Samura's Blade of the Immortal: Blood of a Thousand to be exact.

All was saved.

I had something to feed the beast.

And what a lovely something it was.

Awesome illustrations.

Blood spurting everywhere.

Sarcasm abound.

My kinda stuff.

And what's better?

There's 29 more volumes to collect.

...

Stick a fork in me, i'm done.