By Iris Murdoch
A fantastic yet deeply fallacious guy struggles to earn absolution
Hilary Burde was once a emerging celebrity in academia until eventually a sad coincidence plunged him and his mentor and rival, Gunnar Jopling, into twenty years of melancholy and guilt. Hilary, not able to beat his soreness, deserted his promising occupation for an unfulfilling task as a civil servant. yet at age 41, Hilary crosses paths back with Gunnar—initiating a sequence of occasions that may switch their lives forever.
Set opposed to a richly drawn backdrop of post-war London, A be aware Child is a gripping tale of ardour and the redemptive energy of love.
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Extra resources for A Word Child
The boatman rested his elbow on his knee, his head on his hand. He had a long white beard. Every three or four puffs, without taking his pipe from his mouth, he spat into the water. I could not see his eyes. The horizon was burning with sulphur and phosphorus, it was there I was bound. A+ last I got right down, hobbled down to the ditch and lay down, beside my bicycle. I lay at full stretch, with outspread arms. The white hawthorn stooped towards me, unfortunately I don’t like the smell of hawthorn.
It’s so nice to know where you’re going, in the early stages. It almost rids you of the wish to go there. I was distraught, who am so seldom distraught, from what should I be distraught, and as to my motions even more uncertain than usual. The night must have tired me, at least weakened me, and the sun, hoisting itself higher and higher in the east, had poisoned me, while I slept. I ought to have put the bulk of the rock between it and me before closing my eyes. I confuse east and west, the poles too, I invert them readily.
I don’t know how I got there. Perhaps in an ambulance, certainly a vehicle of some kind. I was helped. I’d never have got there alone. There’s this man who comes every week. Perhaps I got here thanks to him. He says not. He gives me money and takes away the pages. So many pages, so much money. Yes, I work now, a little like I used to, except that I don’t know how to work any more. That doesn’t matter apparently. What I’d like now is to speak of the things that are left, say my good-byes, finish dying.