11/17/2013 by syrbal-labrys
A death that I mourn more than most, at that. My favorite novelist is dead, Doris Lessing has taken her clear eyed observations and exited the stage she never surrendered in prose.
My favorite work of hers is “Canopus in Argos: Archives” — her only science fiction opus. I always felt all of her works, from the famous “Golden Notebook” to the much more deeply descriptive “Children of Violence” had a warm clarity unmatched by other writers. Never have I read fiction so honest and stripped of sentimentality, and a couple short non-fiction volumes I own: “The Wind Blows Away Our Words” about Afghanistan, and “Prisons We Choose To Live Inside” are so hard edged a reader could cut an unwary mind free of societal bullshit.
Any woman willing to tell a Queen to keep her “Dame of the Empire” title because “There is no British Empire,” surely deserves notice and missing. The winter night suddenly seems a bit darker to me, as if a much needed light has surely gone out.