This book was already known to me as the memoir of Iris Murdoch's descent into Alzheimer's, written by her husband while she was still alive. (Never saw the movie.) I was less disturbed by the tragedy of Alzheimer's than by the unsettling dynamic between Iris and John and what it reveals about each of them—most of it revealed unwittingly by the author. It was already known that she continued to have a richly populated bisexual sex life after marrying John, but this is not what bothered me: after all, for intellectuals of that generation, open marriage was the default option. John is quite frank about this, and doesn't complain about it a bit, at least not overtly, but also gives no hint that he himself indulged. This might mean one of three things: either he did indulge but is rather coy about it (unlikely: you'd think he'd at least MENTION that their arrangement was symmetrical, if only to deflect anticipated questions about that), or he had no interest in doing so himself (which would explain his silence), or their arrangement was not symmetrical: she was allowed to sleep around, and he wasn't—which would be reprehensible on her part. I'm inclined toward this last interpretation, if only because—and here this becomes relevant to all the other aspects of the book—Bayley is clearly such a simpering milquetoast and is clearly so in thrall to Iris's force of personality, even in her dementia. (I'm reminded of the old man in the Jack Nicholson film "Five Easy Pieces"—who was such a domineering father in his prime that even in his utter incapacitation from dementia his mere bodily presence keeps his children terrified of displeasing him.) The book skips back and forth with the demoralizing diaper-changing rituals of daily life alone with Iris in her dementia—about which he keeps a stiff upper lip with occasional bursts of ill temper which leave him ashamed and guilty—and reminiscences about her past. A first section about how they met sets the stage, casting him as an innocent virginal schoolboy swept into the world of a glitteringly popular and sexually rapacious cult figure. Even that early on, one wonders what she sees in him. Much of the middle of the book tells, in dull detail, of lots of random tender moments and embarrassingly cute in-jokes between them, even relaying the most mundane details—which dish she used for what meal—the way teenagers do when they're first in love and worshipful, not realizing how these minutiae will bore everyone else. Bayley clearly still thinks Iris is the most alluring and interesting woman who ever lived, and himself barely worthy of her. More creepily, he doesn't manage to tell these anecdotes in a way that the least bit suggests that she felt anything similar toward him. Nor does he sell himself to the reader in a way that leaves us imagining she possibly could. A theme throughout his narration of the marriage is her taking off repeatedly to spend time away from him, mostly having affairs with Holocaust survivors, refugee intellectuals, Nobel laureates and the like—or all three in the case of Elias Canetti, whom Bayley does not name, though he's not at all concealing who it is, since he gives the old man's credentials and even lists some of his book titles, referring to him only as "the magelike Dichter" and such locutions. It's like hearing Dobby the house-elf talk about Voldemort. Nor does he say that Iris actually slept with Canetti. He recounts one meeting between him and Canetti, in which Canetti treats him like something he just found stuck on the bottom of his shoe. This is not reported with anything like anger or indignation; Bayley seems to feel this is in the natural order of things. Most readers with a casual knowledge of Murdoch's life will know that she had a decades-long love affair with Canetti, and that he is the inspiration for a type of character that appears in each of her novels: a charismatic but vaguely sinister and almost superhuman Svengali- or Manson-like emotional and intellectual manipulator that is the center of some circle of enthralled admirers. The fact that Murdoch would be attracted to someone like that—understandable, in a way, if that's your trip—but then keep Bayley as a husband does not reflect very well on her. She didn't want a husband so much as a pet. A pet who shuffles around in slippers and makes tea for her after she comes home all tired from an exhausting vacation on the Mediterranean with an actually *interesting* man. It is not clear that Bayley understands how sad this dynamic is, or that Murdoch herself comes across as a pitiless Canetti-type emotional user as well. Some reviewers interpret this book as a kind of revenge against a now-helpless Murdoch by revealing all of her infidelities. But this interpretation overestimates the English capacity for understatement, attributes to Bayley a level of subtlety that he clearly doesn't have, and also misunderstands the mores of that generation, for whom that kind of free love is not technically infidelity—nor, crucially, anything about her life that was ever at all a secret. Plus, it assumes—incorrectly, I think—that Bayley would have the balls to stand up to Iris like that—even when she can't say a word in protest about it. Ultimately, this book is very depressing, but it's the narrator that is pitiful, not the subject.