Doris Lessing has won the Nobel Prize for Literature.
As the persistent sound of her phone ringing came from inside the house, Ms. Lessing said that on second thought, she was not as surprised “because this has been going on for something like 40 years,” referring to the number of times she has been on the short list for the Nobel. “Either they were going to give it to me sometime before I popped off or not at all.”
On A Day Like This
Parked in a side-street, decided to walk into the town centre to buy my newspaper; legs ached, so very tired, and since it was July I wore shorts, my legs looked fine calf-muscles still strong; had I been a woman I would have said: “look at that man hasn’t he a pair of sex legs,a masculine Marlene Dietrich.” Perhaps not, but as I was thinking of her and Ernest Hemingway, they had loved each other, but never got around to do anything about it, I had walked out of the town wandering along a lane, made of sea sand and crushed shells, till I came to a crossing and at the left of it there was an enormous carob tree and under it heavy low hanging branches I found shade. Breeze filtered through the fleshy leaves making it cool; I leaned on its solid trunk and felt at ease with the world.
I was running up a very steep hill, light footed as an onyx, the breeze…me, the act of running was a joy. At the top I could see the glittering sea and to meet my love I raced down hill faster than a stone could fall, and on the flatland waved to farmers tilling their soil; and without pausing, at the beach, I dived into the sea and began swimming till all land disappeared.
I was at one with nature, around me circled happy dolphins, but suddenly, flecks of dark shadows appeared on the surfaceof the sea and it was cold despite the warm sun, I was utterly alone, my arms were thin and belonging to someone very old; as I throw my head back as not to drown my head hit the trunk of the tree, I looked out the sun had just gone down, but was still sending streaks of gold and orange across the sky. Back in town I thought of the lovely story of Adam & Eve, a pity that we’ll never know the name of the person, who wrote it; at a grocer’s I bought an apple and went looking for my car