Impedimenta recently released the fifth novel by Iris Murdoch, a Dublin-born philosopher who wrote fiction, taught philosophy, and shaped ideas about morality. Over a prolific career she authored twenty-five novels and explored how moral choices ripple through a society that often feels unsettled. Her final major philosophical work appeared in 1992, and her output also encompassed drama, poetry, and essays that questioned how ethical considerations guide social life.
In a 1977 BBC interview, Murdoch spoke about philosophy offering illumination while literature invites playful exploration. She argued that a work of philosophy centers on a theme, yet a single book can harbor many possibilities within its literary expression.
With this idea in mind, A Severed Head, first published in 1961, probes one of Murdoch’s enduring inquiries: how affection for another person interplays with self-focused desire. Love often centers on the self; more often than not we love the idea of love represented in the beloved rather than the beloved themselves.
A Severed Head traces love’s possibilities through a web of relationships among six members of postwar London’s bourgeois society, a circle of wealth and leisure where comfort tempts them to mistake sincerity for truth and to cling to comforting delusions.
The opening scene feels intimate and warm: a couple embraced beside a softly lit hearth, while the world outside is veiled by a cold London fog. The narrator, Martin Lynch-Gibbon, moves toward an embrace that seems rightful because he believes he holds both power and fulfillment in his grasp.
At home, Martin’s life becomes tangled. His wife’s sudden departure nudges him to weigh the duties of a mistress and the risk of losing security. He questions his own capacity to love either partner. Murdoch does not offer a quick escape; soon Martin confronts a storm of self-doubt and emotional upheaval. Infidelities, jealousy, and even incestuous impulses surface as the narrative deepens.
A faceless head sculpture found in Martin’s brother’s workshop evolves into a potent symbol. It embodies the mind that fashions monsters and loses touch with humanity. Detached and silent, the head offers only cryptic knowledge and fleeting remarks, never true empathy. As love and heartbreak collide, the refrain “I thought I knew you, but it came as a surprise” echoes through the pages, revealing how little the characters truly know themselves.
lively rhythm
Despite weighty themes, the novel sustains a brisk pace with carefully placed surprises that nudge the characters toward new fates. Murdoch demonstrates tight storytelling, guiding readers with precision while preserving the momentum of the plot. Her linguistic skill shines as she shifts from refined upper-class diction to blunt, colloquial speech, signaling a movement toward more ordinary experiences in mid century life. The link between mood and weather remains constant, with Martin sometimes suffocated by heavy air and other times lost in fog. Across the board, egocentrism narrows each circle of influence to a dim, yellow glow, where people and objects appear suddenly in unsettling ways.
Within the narrative London, Honor Klein emerges as a guiding presence who helps the others face their fears and, at times, their aggression. His steadiness offers a path toward balance amid social self-interest that once defined their era.
Klein suggests that expressing fear or allowing violence can be part of the human experience when used to nourish the spirit and communal life. His quiet persistence does not grant him peace with the group, yet he becomes a lasting bridge between the educated elites and the wider world beyond their walls. He remains a concrete reality in the story, a constant reminder of connection rather than detachment.
Klein does not hate love, but he questions the form it takes. He challenges a love that demands denial of others’ needs and rights. He champions a love that recognizes real people with genuine desires and autonomy.
A Severed Head invites readers to view events from multiple angles. The text frequently nods to myth and carries psychoanalytic undertones in its characters and actions. Murdoch studied philosophy and literature at Cambridge, and her early work included a major English study on Sartre, highlighting a lifelong interest in how philosophy and fiction illuminate human contradictions.
The author spent the later years of her life facing Alzheimer’s disease. Her partner, John Bayley, a fellow Oxford scholar and writer, chronicled aspects of Murdoch’s life and the impact of memory on intellect and daily living in a series published toward the end of the century. The intertwined histories of their partnership continue to inform discussions about Murdoch’s legacy.
As a novel, A Severed Head remains a candid exploration of how people shape one another through love, vanity, and the social rituals that surround them. It stands as a testament to Murdoch’s ability to fuse philosophical inquiry with sharp, human storytelling that mirrors the moral questions of its era and still resonates today. The text invites readers to question how much of what we call love is truly about the other person and how much is about the self, a theme that remains relevant across generations and cultures.