If you are a major Murdoch fan, do read this book, but be prepared to toss it against the wall at least once. If you are a general reader of biographies, skip it. The writer is eminently qualified, having access to virtually every document and everyone, and knew Iris. He has edited a collection of Murdoch's essays and is a noted critic. That last point hints at his weakness. He lacks appreciation for the craft of biography, but writes as a specialized scholar. British scholars stop at no miniscule point, so we have 60 pages of endnotes along with footnotes. (It is why I as an academic appreciate their intense and complete studies.) Consequently Conradi leaves an open invitation to bring us Iris, for apart from many wonderful excerpts of her letters and journals, she remains a confusing collage partially hidden under objects of little import.
The opening chapters, as other reviewers noted, a slog, so accept my invitation to graze through big chunks. Eventually you'll find hints of Iris, the best part starting with Oxford, and random bits from thereon. Conradi can present lives clearly--he does offer orderly, concise lives of her key lovers. They are the most readable and often illuminating sections of the book. Though I am a historian, I learned some repressed history about WWII. Yet the information belonged elsewhere, and imply the men as being more important than Murdoch.
Here's why it is difficult to grasp Iris. Conradi skips about chronologically, starts at a point, then backshifts when not always necessary, then cuts ahead. He'll give lines of people's observations, some contradictory, without any interpretation or analysis. This makes her effectiveness as an Oxford teacher hard to ken. He seems preoccupied with her sexual life, for it takes large chunks of the account. Yes, she enjoyed sex as a young woman, that without necessary emotional involvement. But it is treated out of proportion to her writing life and her philosophy. Worse, he never examines why she was attracted, enthralled the better word, with several sadistic men. Similarly, he turnabout to marry a gentle, self-effacing man needs explanation.
He slides through her final decades very quickly, which is odd given he knew her then. Rather, he tells us too much about the lives of others, such as once-enthraller Canetti, and suddenly on one page Iris is brain-shrunk. Perhaps he expects John Bayley's account to stand in, but as a biographer he had a duty here.
That said, here's what I appreciated learning: that she was a serious philosopher, and understanding such helps appreciate her fiction. That she was a bit odd in her habits and composure was interesting. That she seemed oblivious to her powerful effect upon others from an early age explains some of that odd duck behavior. Conradi deserves praise for placing her in context: her education at Badminton School (I don't make that up) and how the 30s shifted her into Marxism, studying Classics, then "Mods and Greats" in Oxford when women were still not welcome, her volunteering during the war, her challenging Oxford philosphy after the war. This material grounds her in place and time, very essential to modern readers.
I kept wondering if I was missing something in my general struggle with the constant shifts from clarity to confusion, mixed chronology, and too much backstory on minor individuals. Being a critic, he helps by connecting characters' personas to possible real life people, and also to her philosophy. Indeed, I'll keep the book as a reference, but look forward to a deft, straightforward presentation of her complicated personality and immense intellect. It won't be easy, but Conradi has laid the tracks.