The Black Prince by Iris Murdoch

'Hamlet is unusual because it is a great work of literature in which everyone identifies with the hero' states Bradley Pearson, the protagonist of this book. Which makes me wonder, how do we not identify with the hero of the modern novel? I certain didn't want to identify with Bradley Pearson, but he sucks you in. He does terrible things and says wise things. But are they wise? We can't trust his own view of himself, but no one else's seems viable either. This novel is awash with Shakespeare, and if there's one Shakespeare quote that I had to pick to describe it, it would be 'all the world's a stage and all the men and women merely players'. There is no stability, I don't think I have ever read a novel where any verifiable 'reality' is so utterly absent. Characters take on roles, reject roles, get roles assigned to them, and vie with one another for the last word. The entire work seems to be exploding out of its literary boundaries. The very concept of 'character' and 'personality' is annihilated as characters and actions become unrecognizable from one page to another. There's something hyponitising about the utter loss of meaning in this book, as all offered ideas disintegrate. Overall, absolutely stupendous and deeply disturbing. I didn't actually know that my love for Iris Murdoch could get any greater, but apparently it can.