ular romance? Or is she a skillfulnpopular writer producing high-gradenHarlequin romances? Maybe such questionsndon’t need to be answered. ThenHouse of Fiction is large and has roomnfor blended forms. In any case, Murdochnis a fascinating storyteller, inventivento a remarkable degree and uncommonlynintelligent.nThe nuns and soldiers of the titlenare metaphorical, with one exception,nAnne, a woman who has recently ceasednto be a nun after 15 years of cloisterednlife. She returns to London to renew anclose friendship with Gertrude, whosenhusband Guy is dying of cancer. Surroundingnthis trio is a group of friendsnand relatives for whom Guy’s home is ankind of headquarters. After Guy’s deathna tangle of love relationships ensues.nVeronica loves Manfred who loves Annenwho loves Peter who loves Gertrudenwho loves Tim who loves Daisy. Thencenter of focus is the wealthy widownGertrude and her sudden passion (“Itnwas a coup defoudre “) for Tim, a mediocrenpainter short on money and moralnstrength. The conflict grows out of thenunlikeliness of their union. How cannGertrude want to marry a man so apparentlynunworthy of her and so differentnfrom her beloved first husband? CannTim overcome his disreputable past,nbreak definitively with Daisy, his partnernin dissipation, and learn moral responsibilitynand artistic integrity? WhilenGertrude and Tim’s relationship fluctuatesnbetween joy and misery, Peter,ndevoted to Gertrude, waits with patientnrestraint and nobility. And Anne, deeplynin love with Peter, refrains with similarnhonor and discipline from declaring hernlove.nThat is a bare outline of the relationship;nit provides no hint of the delightfullyncomplex and subtle psychologicalnstates Murdoch creates. Nor is therenspace here to discuss the portents andnsymbols, the ritualistic ordeals, the baptismsnand rebirths, the figurative godsnand demons, and the magical naturalnsettings contained in the novel. Therenare enough to make a Ph.D. candidatensalivate.nr5oth novels are worth lengthy individualnconsideration, but what interestsnme most are elements they have in common.nThese similarities reveal somethingnabout the state of contemporarynfiction.nThe first similarity is that both novelsntreat religion—specifically Roman Catholicism—withna mixture of attractionnand repulsion. Neither author is en-nand Dreiser who set out to embody naturalisticntheories in fiction were betrayednby it. They may have begun withnthe assumption that man is simply onenof the animals, shaped exclusively bynheredity and environment, living in anworld devoid of absolute values; butnas soon as they began creating characternand event, then love, compassion, unselfishness,nfairness and other perennialnvalues—those at the heart of Christianity—assertednthemselves. And in then”Writing I in Nuns ,ina .S«/,//f ;•. | this bail i-iiiiiuii be fakal: IIIDR- liktly if nushi-.snsiiMicht from the iinrt/lic-vctl sinccrit} ol an iiiithur w ho ntnls IHDSIIV ti) clL-ccivf In-isfltn…. J much pivti;r to takt- my ITOIIL- fiintasii-s nnv. ‘I’hi-y an- niiiri.” niurilioiisniliat way.”n— Cii’orfjie StaticnSew Yrtrk Times liiiok Kerieirngagril in Christian apologetics; in fact,nneither takes Catholic orthodoxy seriously.nGordon’s Father Cyprian is annunattractive character in many ways.nMurdoch’s ex-nun is visited by Christnin her kitchen—a rather peculiar Christn—but the vision is obviously intendednto tell us about Anne’s psychologicalnstate rather than to stimulate our faith.nYet in both novels religion is an importantnsource of values; it supplies eachnauthor with ideals and absolutes, whichnare necessary for generating significantnhuman conflict and growth. As Gordonnadmitted in an interview, people likenCyprian “stand for a kind of absolutenstandard and passion and uncompromisingnessnand some notion of the ideal.nWithout which I think life is very impoverished.”nAnd fiction is impoverished also. Wenare engaged by characters and situationsnin which “oughtness” makes a difference.nHuman conflict, whether betweennpeople or within the individual, hasnsignificance only within a frameworknof values. And the values must be morenthan arbitrary or whimsical; they mustnbear the validation of the ages and correspondnwith man’s innate moral sense.nThat moral sense is persistent enoughnthat even writers such as Crane, Norrisnnnend we are attracted to these writersnnot because of their naturalistic theoriesnbut in spite of them.nFiction in the 20th century has oftennignored or discredited religion. In hisncharacterization of literary modernism,nIrving Howe says:nA modernist culture soon learns tonrespect, even to cherish, signs of itsndivision. It sees doubt as a form ofnhealth. It hunts for ethical normsnthrough underground journeys, experimentsnwith sensation, and a mockingnsuspension of accredited values.nUpon the passport of the Wisdom ofnthe Ages, it stamps in bold red letters:nNot Transferable. It cultivates, innThomas Mann’s phrase, “a sympathynfor the abyss.” It strips man of hisnsystems of belief and his ideal claims,nand then proposes the one uniquelynmodern style of salvation: a salvationnby, of, and for the self.nIt is interesting, therefore, to considernhow religion is treated in these twonrecent novels.nMurdoch’s novel is filled with godsnand devils, but they are metaphors.nAll the same they serve a purpose. Theynappeal to our interest in transcendentnforces. Although Gertrude hatesnreligion and Tim displays no interestn••^^MH^ 9nJuly/Attgost 1981n