"Oh Christ!" was Doris Lessing's characteristically no-nonsense response to the assembled crowd of photographers from whom she learned that she had finally been awarded the Nobel prize for literature in 2007. Bundling out of the back of a taxi, she had assumed all the cameras were there because they were filming a soap or an episode of Morse or something, for which the terraced street in West Hampstead where she lived for more than 25 years was particularly popular.
"I've won all the prizes in Europe, every bloody one, so I'm delighted to win them all. It's a royal flush," she said from her front step. This scene became a hit on YouTube, with teenage bloggers commenting on how "cool" the latest laureate was. But Lessing was just being herself. She really didn't give a damn about what the world thought.
After 40 years of being shortlisted, Lessing at 87 was the oldest winner of the literature prize, and only the 11th female winner in its then 104-year history. What a pity, she scolded, that Virginia Woolf wasn't number four or five. The Swedish academy (which, according to Lessing, had publicly disapproved of her in the 1970s), described her as "that epicist of the female experience, who with scepticism, fire and visionary power has subjected a divided civilisation to scrutiny". The Golden Notebook, published 45 years before, was commended as a "pioneering work" that "belongs to the handful of books that informed the 20th-century view of the male-female relationship".
Lessing's fate was always to be feted as a pioneer of the feminist movement, a mantle she had thrust upon her and spent many years trying to shake off, much to the ire of the sisterhood who had claimed her as a leader. It was a lifelong source of frustration to her that the feverish excitement, both positive and negative (she was called a "man-hater" and "ball-breaker") provoked by its depiction of female emancipation, in particular sexual liberation, eclipsed the – to her – more important theme of madness and breakdown and the novel's experimental, fragmentary structure.
Although she came to see The Golden Notebook as her "albatross", she had to concede that the novel, written during a period of great personal and social upheaval, had a life and energy of its own. "This book has got a sort of charge to it. It keeps popping up somewhere in some country and I have to say 'My God, this book has got something. It has got a quality, a vitality.'"
Generations of – mainly, it is true, female – readers agree. The Guardian Review book club boasts a distinguished history of literary guests, but only Lessing achieved the distinction of a spontaneous standing ovation upon entering the room, a tiny figure dressed entirely in black, stolid as a carved deity. "I read your book in 1964 when I was 20," one woman said, almost tearfully, "and you saved my life", a sentiment echoed by women of all ages in the room. This guru-like reputation followed her everywhere, and she would recall how, after a talk at a university in New York, a girl asked: "Now, Mrs Lessing, tell me the meaning of life." She replied: "What makes you think I know it?" To which the girl, unsatisfied, complained: "Come on. Don't be like that. Don't hold out on us."
Lessing herself was sceptical of a book's life-changing potential – "people are just ready to think differently" she would say – but she did admit to being profoundly influenced by The Sufis written by Idries Shah, following her disillusionment with communism in the 1960s. Her literary path took her in the opposite direction to that of a fellow intrepid chronicler of the 20th century, JG Ballard. As Martin Amis noted, Ballard turned from navigating outer to inner space, while Lessing swapped social realism for science fiction. Of all her more than 50 books, she was most proud of her Canopus sci-fi novels – and it was always a sore point with her that, although popular, they were not more critically esteemed.
AS Byatt described her as "one of the few prophets of literature", and JM Coetzee called her "one of the great visionary novelists of our time". Indeed, Lessing seemed to have an almost uncanny genius for pre-empting problems or social change, be it the sexual revolution of the 60s or ecological disaster in her later fiction. It was, perhaps, this sensitivity that made her so receptive to change in her own life, always knowing, as we say today, when to "move on". But despite her intellectual restlessness, and long-term exile, part of her heart remained for ever in the Africa of her childhood, manifest in her fiction – as always on both personal and political levels – in the flight from her mother, with whom she fought either directly or in memory until her mother's death, and the injustices of apartheid she witnessed.
She forever credited the combination of the "quite excessively British attitudes" of her expat parents and "the other eye", acquired through growing up in a foreign country, as the ideal foundation for a novelist. Her journey from Marxism to mysticism is well documented – and there are few political or cultural ideologies of the 20th century which Lessing did not embrace – only, usually, to divorce herself with equal ferocity. She may have been given to contrariness and paradox, but she was consistent in her enquiring engagement with the times.
An interviewer who visited Lessing in West Hampstead shortly after the author had just moved in, observed that it had the impression of "camping out". After more than a quarter of a century of camping out, the house, with its seven flights of stairs (a trial to Lessing in her final years), seemed almost to be supported by a precarious interior scaffolding of piles of books and shelves. She lived there with a succession of much-loved feline companions, and Peter, her son from her second marriage, who had an adjoining flat of his own.
Early in her career, Lessing was much castigated for failing to demonstrate sufficient breast-beating over abandoning her two children from her first marriage when she left Africa in 1950. "While it was a terrible thing to do, it was right to do it," she insisted. In her autobiography Lessing, with her typical combination of idealism and merciless clear-sightedness, recalls the explanation she gave to her children: "I was going to change this ugly world, they would live in a beautiful world where there would be no race hatred, injustice and so forth … I was absolutely sincere," she writes, before concluding: "There isn't much to be said for sincerity, in itself."
She may not have changed the world in quite the way she had imagined when she set sail for Britain all those years ago, and it may be far from the beautiful place she envisaged, but she has changed the lives of countless readers and, whether she liked it or not (and it's a fair bet that secretly she did), she helped change the way women are perceived, and perceive themselves.
Outspoken to the last, Lessing was still making headlines with controversial views on 9/11 or the banality of the internet. Mercurial, mischievous, generous and imperious, she was a true grande dame, a writer who simply "couldn't not write". For her, her greatest achievement was "to go on writing through thick and thin. I've met girls who say 'My mother told me to read you, and my grandmother.' That really is something, isn't it?" Reported by guardian.co.uk 1 day ago.
"I've won all the prizes in Europe, every bloody one, so I'm delighted to win them all. It's a royal flush," she said from her front step. This scene became a hit on YouTube, with teenage bloggers commenting on how "cool" the latest laureate was. But Lessing was just being herself. She really didn't give a damn about what the world thought.
After 40 years of being shortlisted, Lessing at 87 was the oldest winner of the literature prize, and only the 11th female winner in its then 104-year history. What a pity, she scolded, that Virginia Woolf wasn't number four or five. The Swedish academy (which, according to Lessing, had publicly disapproved of her in the 1970s), described her as "that epicist of the female experience, who with scepticism, fire and visionary power has subjected a divided civilisation to scrutiny". The Golden Notebook, published 45 years before, was commended as a "pioneering work" that "belongs to the handful of books that informed the 20th-century view of the male-female relationship".
Lessing's fate was always to be feted as a pioneer of the feminist movement, a mantle she had thrust upon her and spent many years trying to shake off, much to the ire of the sisterhood who had claimed her as a leader. It was a lifelong source of frustration to her that the feverish excitement, both positive and negative (she was called a "man-hater" and "ball-breaker") provoked by its depiction of female emancipation, in particular sexual liberation, eclipsed the – to her – more important theme of madness and breakdown and the novel's experimental, fragmentary structure.
Although she came to see The Golden Notebook as her "albatross", she had to concede that the novel, written during a period of great personal and social upheaval, had a life and energy of its own. "This book has got a sort of charge to it. It keeps popping up somewhere in some country and I have to say 'My God, this book has got something. It has got a quality, a vitality.'"
Generations of – mainly, it is true, female – readers agree. The Guardian Review book club boasts a distinguished history of literary guests, but only Lessing achieved the distinction of a spontaneous standing ovation upon entering the room, a tiny figure dressed entirely in black, stolid as a carved deity. "I read your book in 1964 when I was 20," one woman said, almost tearfully, "and you saved my life", a sentiment echoed by women of all ages in the room. This guru-like reputation followed her everywhere, and she would recall how, after a talk at a university in New York, a girl asked: "Now, Mrs Lessing, tell me the meaning of life." She replied: "What makes you think I know it?" To which the girl, unsatisfied, complained: "Come on. Don't be like that. Don't hold out on us."
Lessing herself was sceptical of a book's life-changing potential – "people are just ready to think differently" she would say – but she did admit to being profoundly influenced by The Sufis written by Idries Shah, following her disillusionment with communism in the 1960s. Her literary path took her in the opposite direction to that of a fellow intrepid chronicler of the 20th century, JG Ballard. As Martin Amis noted, Ballard turned from navigating outer to inner space, while Lessing swapped social realism for science fiction. Of all her more than 50 books, she was most proud of her Canopus sci-fi novels – and it was always a sore point with her that, although popular, they were not more critically esteemed.
AS Byatt described her as "one of the few prophets of literature", and JM Coetzee called her "one of the great visionary novelists of our time". Indeed, Lessing seemed to have an almost uncanny genius for pre-empting problems or social change, be it the sexual revolution of the 60s or ecological disaster in her later fiction. It was, perhaps, this sensitivity that made her so receptive to change in her own life, always knowing, as we say today, when to "move on". But despite her intellectual restlessness, and long-term exile, part of her heart remained for ever in the Africa of her childhood, manifest in her fiction – as always on both personal and political levels – in the flight from her mother, with whom she fought either directly or in memory until her mother's death, and the injustices of apartheid she witnessed.
She forever credited the combination of the "quite excessively British attitudes" of her expat parents and "the other eye", acquired through growing up in a foreign country, as the ideal foundation for a novelist. Her journey from Marxism to mysticism is well documented – and there are few political or cultural ideologies of the 20th century which Lessing did not embrace – only, usually, to divorce herself with equal ferocity. She may have been given to contrariness and paradox, but she was consistent in her enquiring engagement with the times.
An interviewer who visited Lessing in West Hampstead shortly after the author had just moved in, observed that it had the impression of "camping out". After more than a quarter of a century of camping out, the house, with its seven flights of stairs (a trial to Lessing in her final years), seemed almost to be supported by a precarious interior scaffolding of piles of books and shelves. She lived there with a succession of much-loved feline companions, and Peter, her son from her second marriage, who had an adjoining flat of his own.
Early in her career, Lessing was much castigated for failing to demonstrate sufficient breast-beating over abandoning her two children from her first marriage when she left Africa in 1950. "While it was a terrible thing to do, it was right to do it," she insisted. In her autobiography Lessing, with her typical combination of idealism and merciless clear-sightedness, recalls the explanation she gave to her children: "I was going to change this ugly world, they would live in a beautiful world where there would be no race hatred, injustice and so forth … I was absolutely sincere," she writes, before concluding: "There isn't much to be said for sincerity, in itself."
She may not have changed the world in quite the way she had imagined when she set sail for Britain all those years ago, and it may be far from the beautiful place she envisaged, but she has changed the lives of countless readers and, whether she liked it or not (and it's a fair bet that secretly she did), she helped change the way women are perceived, and perceive themselves.
Outspoken to the last, Lessing was still making headlines with controversial views on 9/11 or the banality of the internet. Mercurial, mischievous, generous and imperious, she was a true grande dame, a writer who simply "couldn't not write". For her, her greatest achievement was "to go on writing through thick and thin. I've met girls who say 'My mother told me to read you, and my grandmother.' That really is something, isn't it?" Reported by guardian.co.uk 1 day ago.