48 pages • 1-hour read
Iris MurdochA modern alternative to SparkNotes and CliffsNotes, SuperSummary offers high-quality Study Guides with detailed chapter summaries and analysis of major themes, characters, and more.
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Content Warning: This section of the guide includes discussion of death.
Charles opens his memoir with a vow: He has come to the sea “to learn to be good” (2), and the project depends on a single belief he has carried since boyhood: that Mary Hartley Smith, his childhood love, is the “alpha and omega” of his existence (75). He makes this declaration before seeing Hartley again, and when he first sees her, in a “brown tent-like dress” and smudged lipstick (110), his certainty about her and her role in his life doesn’t falter; instead, it becomes even firmer. Charles writes in his letter to her that he can “make her happy” even though he writes this without yet knowing anything about her life (175). He reflects, “In the teeth of all the evidence, we belonged to each other” (135), but this conclusion is based on nostalgia for youth and the remembered intensity of first love. He holds this belief throughout the novel, even as evidence to the contrary continues to build, proving the powerful influence of the nostalgia of first love.
Even in the face of Hartley’s direct disagreement, Charles remains committed to his view of the undying nature of their relationship. The most extreme example of this is Hartley’s captivity at Shruff End. She says “I want to go home” again and again over four days (290), in language so plain that Charles’s counterarguments become equally direct, taking the shape of refusal rather than persuasion. He calls her unhappy; she does not deny it, but neither does she describe a wish to leave Ben. He argues that her freedom requires staying with him; she says, with flat clarity, that a decision to go with him would require “a miracle in [her] mind” (305). The book establishes Charles’s reasoning early on and reinforces it, but then it juxtaposes Hartley’s actual sentences against it. Each clear and definitive statement that she want to “go home” undermines his elaborate rationalizations.
Near the end of the novel, Charles finally begins to see how his nostalgic ideas of first love have led him astray. The aphorism Charles repeats early on in the narrative, “On n’aime qu’une fois, la première” (76), roughly translated as “You only love once, the first time,” returns in the Postscript. He adds the comment, “What a lot of folly I have run through in aid of that stupid gallicism!” (486), an admission that his adherence to the idea of the primacy of first love led him to his “folly.” Hartley vanishes to Australia, and Charles finally arrives at the idea that “[s]he was not able to be my Beatrice nor was I able to be saved by her” (494). Although this statement seems to highlight his growth and changing perspective, he qualifies it by adding that “the idea was not senseless or unworthy” (494). Although he understands, he is also determined not to entirely give up his ideas. Charles’s late admission to Lizzie, “I’m bound to her, bound, it’s—it’s absolute” (357), illustrates his return to his earlier ideas, despite everything that has happened. His stubborn adherence to the idea, despite a narrative that reveals its hollowness, illustrates the depth of the intensity of first love and its continued nostalgic power.
In The Sea, the Sea, the narrative explores the causes and effects of jealousy, concluding that it is a self-fulfilling prophecy, a distorted perspective that is both the origin and the result of discontent. Ben’s jealousy of Charles and Hartley’s fictional relationship illustrates how unshakeable a perspective formed in jealousy can be. When Hartley reveals that Ben “thinks Titus is [Charles’s] son” (219), the narrative highlights how Ben has spent 18 years interpreting an adopted child’s facial features, his wife’s silences, and his rival’s televised success as proofs of their extended affair. Hartley’s account of his interrogations, “He kept asking and pressing me and asking again and again, every day, sometimes every hour” (218), shows the method by which he sustained the belief: Any answer that fails to confirm his theory is categorized as a lie. Hartley’s denial that she and Charles had been lovers becomes, inside Ben’s framework, the strongest sign that they were. With his rationale and behavior, the narrative highlights how jealousy can fuel itself, becoming a self-fulfilling prophecy.
The book extends its exploration of jealousy through the relationships between Charles, Peregrine, Rosina, and Lizzie. When he confesses to pushing Charles into Minn’s cauldron, Peregrine admits, “[A]ll the old stored-up hate came pouring out and all the green-eyed jealousy, as fresh as ever” (394). This is a shock for Charles because Peregrine has always acted as if his betrayal was forgiven. He has spent days constructing an elaborate theory of Ben as a murderer, mustering Titus’s death as confirmation, only to learn that the attack came from the friend whose tolerance he had taken for granted. Peregrine’s jealousy of Charles is mirrored by his ex-wife Regina’s jealous possession of Charles; she sees every appearance of Lizzie in the area as a sign of Charles’s betrayal and takes revenge accordingly. Like Ben, she sees everything through a jealous lens that seems to confirm what she suspects.
The narrative links these expressions of jealousy with the word “demon,” which Murdoch returns to at every level of the narrative. Peregrine tells Charles, “you’ve been with me like a demon, like a cancer” (394), while Hartley speaks of Ben’s ideas about Charles as “demons in our lives” (227). At the beginning of the novel, Charles overhears Ben saying, “I have lived in a sort of soup of lies ever since the start” (10), but later, the narrative reveals that most of those “lies” were jealous fictions Ben himself supplied. The novel argues that jealousy is a self-fulfilling prophecy, producing the very evidence that supports it and refusing to consider any other explanation.
In the opening of the novel, Charles announces his retirement as a turn from a busy, dramatic life in theater to a quiet, spiritual rural existence. He declares that he has come to Shruff End “to learn to be good” and to “abjure magic and become a hermit” (2). The early chapters track his attempts at this new lifestyle. He records his daily swimming, the collection of stones, and his meals. He tells the reader he is no longer the famous director “made glittering and brittle by fame” (3). The novel lets these declarations stand for nearly a hundred pages before testing them with a reunion with Hartley. The test reveals that even in his retirement, Charles’s dramatic nature hasn’t changed. After only days in his new life, the same man who has renounced the theater writes to an ex-lover to renew the relationship and kidnaps an ex-girlfriend. Charles’s pronouncements about adopting the simple life prove to be superficial, as he reverts to his nature.
The book implies that Charles has adopted retirement in the same way he has adopted roles in the past. Further, it shows that if he sees another role, he will gladly abandon his current persona to return to his former role as director. Charles writes the rescue letter to Hartley with the assured cadences of someone who has cast the production already: “I have come to know—never mind how, but I do know—that you are most unhappily married” (202). The pronouncement and the secret of how he knows it (eavesdropping at the bungalow window) sit together comfortably in Charles’s prose: He still arranges scenes, still believes that his perception of others’ lives entitles him to act on them, and still equates his own desire with their good.
Toward the end of the novel, James names this pattern when he tells Charles, “It may even be your destiny to live alone and be everybody’s uncle like a celibate priest, there are worse ends” (439). Charles receives the line with interest, and over the following pages, he adopts this new role. The Postscript completes the demonstration by showing Charles cheerfully adopting James’s phrase: “Am I settling into my role as a celibate uncle-priest?” (475). The question, framed in theater language, suggests that one performance has succeeded another. Charles half-acknowledges what the reader has been watching all along, commenting, “What an egoist I must seem in the preceding pages” (477). He settles more comfortably into his new role, returning to London and regularly going to lunch with Lizzie. In the closing pages of the novel, he fully reveals that the renunciation of his former life was an attempt to perform a role that felt appropriate, rather than a real desire to retire. With his return to London, he adopts a new role that better suits his nature, highlighting the futility of trying to assume a new life that doesn’t reflect his essential self.



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