Published in 1961. A dry, droll, dirty book by Iris Murdoch about sexual triangles, murder, suicide and incest amongst a group of morally liberated bourgeois who keep somewhat unaccountably falling in love and raping each other in an infallably British manner. Very serious, then horribly sad, then suddenly and absolutely hilarious, this book has the great fortune to be written by a great writer when she was writing her greatest book. The plot contains one of the weirdest surprise twists I have ever encountered in a novel, and can be easily read in a sitting or in a season, take your pick.