I read Iris Murdoch’s first published novel, Under the Net. It never really comes together in the end, but that doesn’t matter, because the narrator, a lazy writer with “shattered nerves,” is hilarious. He’s the kind of guy who falls in love at the drop of a hat and changes course with consistent passion. How could one not love listening to him, as he spends the entire book on a fruitless search? It’s a search for his old lover, a search for a script, a search for dough, and above all, a search for his pal Hugo/Wittgenstein. Of course, when he finds what he’s looking for, he realizes that what they actually are is not at all what he invented them to be.