Irish Writers selection, but alas I missed the discussion. Once again didn’t have post-it flags with me for most of it, and it’s a long book—too long by half and soap-opera-ish, but I loved the beginning. What struck me the most was Charles Arrowby’s love of food and focus on his little meals and treats, which I 90% identify with (not 100% because I get synergistic pleasure from reading while eating):
I ate and drank slowly as one should (cook fast, eat slowly) and without distractions such as (thank heavens) conversation or reading. Indeed eating is so pleasant one should even try to suppress thought. Of course reading and thinking are important but, my God, food is important too. How fortunate we are to be food-consuming animals. Every meal should be a treat and one ought to bless every day which brings with it a good digestion and the precious gift of hunger.
It was early evident to me that my uncle was more loved and fortunate than my father. How does a child perceive such things, or rather how is it that they are so perceptible, so obvious, to a child, who perhaps, like a dog, reads signs which have become invisible amid the conventions of the grown-up world, and are thus overlooked in the adult campaign of deceit?
One of the secrets of a happy life is continuous small treats, and if some of these can be inexpensive and quickly procured so much the better.
I also took up acting … because I wanted to have fun myself and to procure some for my father. I doubt if he possessed the concept, or ever managed to acquire it later under my eager guidance. In having fun myself I have throughout my life been fairly consistently successful.
This interesting Paris Review essay comments that Arrowby’s food is not as good as it sounds to him, indicative of his self-deception about his character, but also that Iris Murdoch herself loved and ate similar dishes.