With remarkable tenderness, John Bayley recreates his passionate love affair with Iris Murdoch--world-renowned writer and philosopher, and his wife of forty-two years--and poignantly describes the dimming of her brilliance due to Alzheimer's disease. Elegy for Iris is a story about the ephemeral beauty of youth and the sobering reality of what it means to grow old, but its ultimate power is that Bayley discovers great hope and joy in his celebration of Iris's life and their love. In its grasp of life's frailty and its portrayal of one of the great literary romances of this century, Elegy for Iris is a mesmerizing work of art that will be read for generations. “This splendid book enlarges our imagination of the range and possibilities of love.” ― Mary Gordon, The New York Times Book Review “Magnificently, hauntingly humane.” ― Michael Pakenham, The Baltimore Sun “Bayley's restrained and elegant love song to his wife of 42 years . . . is beautiful and heartbreaking. Full of spirit, generous and resilient.” ― Gail Caldwell, The Boston Globe “A beautifully rendered portrait . . . Bayley reaffirms how suffering can ennoble the human heart. [ Elegy for Iris ] is an affecting remembrance of one of the great literary marriages of our time. It celebrates the victory of life--and love.” ― Wendell Brock, The Atlanta Journal-Constitution “A heart-melting love story and an erudite inquiry into the nature of personality, memory, and invention. Wise and full of grace.” ― Shelby Hearon, The Chicago Tribune “ Elegy for Iris is a work of art. As beautiful as it is wise, Elegy for Iris has already become a classic memoir and a remedy for modern love. Read it and, if you dare, give it to someone you love.” ― Tom D'Evelyn, Providence Sunday Journal “Here, between the covers of an incredible book, is love . . . that doesn't hedge, love for which there are no ready outs, love that feels as inevitable as breathing, and the result is stunning.” ― Abraham Verghese,The Los Angeles Times Book Review “Heartfelt and admirably unsentimental . . . a testament to a love that has endured and transcended the most terrifying ravages of illness and old age.” ― Francine Prose, Elle “In Elegy for Iris I find my mother and father, my wife's parents, our friends, and us. I find shared lives, and hurts and forgivenesses, and joys that are greatest because nobody else knows them.” ― Dan Rather "This splendid book enlarges our imagination of the range and possibilities of love." --Mary Gordon, The New York Times "Without a hint of sentimentality, treats hopelessly sad things in a manner that celebrates eternal human verity...Magnificently, hauntingly humane." --Michael Pakenham, The Baltimore Sun "Bayley's restrained and elegant love song to his wife of 42 years...is beautiful and heartbreaking. Full of spirit, generous and resilient." --Gail Caldwell, The Boston Globe "A heart-melting love story and an erudite inquiry into the nature of personality, memory, and invention. Wise and full of grace." --Shelby Hearon, The Chicago Tribune John Bayley is an eminent literary critic who taught at Oxford for more than 30 years, and was chairman of the Booker Prize Committee. He is the author of The Red Hat and several other works of fiction and nonfiction. He was married to the author Dame Iris Murdoch until her death. Elegy for Iris By John Bayley Picador USA Copyright ©2000 John Bayley All right reserved. ISBN: 9780312253820 Chapter One     A hot day . Stagnant, humid. By normal Englishstandards, really hot, insufferably hot. Notthat England has standards about suchthings anymore. Global warming, no doubt. But it's a commonplaceabout growing old that there seem to be nostandards anymore. The dog days. With everything goneto the dogs.     Cheerless thoughts to be having on a pleasure jaunt,or what used to be one. For years now, we've usuallymanaged a treat for ourselves on really hot days, at homein the summer. We take the car along the bypass roadfrom Oxford, for a mile or two, and twist abruptly off onto the verge--quite a tricky feat with fast-moving trafficjust behind. Sometimes there are hoots and shouts frompassing cars which have had to brake at speed, but by thattime we have jolted to a stop on the tussocky grass, lockedthe car, and crept through a gap in the hedge.     I remember the first time we did it, nearly forty-fiveyears ago. We were on bicycles then, and there was littletraffic on the unimproved road. Nor did we know wherethe river was exactly; we just thought it must be somewherethere. And with the ardour of comparative youth,we wormed our way through the rank grass and sedgeuntil we almost fell into it. Crouching in the shelter ofthe reeds, we tore our clothes off and slipped in like waterrats. A kingfisher flashed past our noses as we lay soundlesslyin the dark, sluggish current. A moment after wehad crawled out and were drying ourselves on Iris's half-slip,a big pleasure boat chu