Doris Lessing died this morning, aged 94. The below is from the Spectator’s archives.
Doris Lessing’s Nobel win came as a surprise to everyone, the author apparently included. Despite her enormous, decades-long international reputation, she was less fancied than dozens of patently smaller writers. That could only have been ascribed to a cynical estimate of the way the Swedish academy works. On literary merit, no one would have questioned her right to it. She is one of the greatest of novelists in English.
Her career is a matter of savage breakthroughs into quite new territory, as if her searching, sceptical intelligence could never be satisfied with stasis for long. It begins, dauntingly, with a novel of unmatched technical command, The Grass is Singing. This overwhelming tragedy, published as long ago as 1950, immediately revealed a novelist of huge natural gifts, and, when she chose to exercise it, a natural sense of classical style.
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