Title: no title
Review: How I loathed, absolutely loathed this book. Almost three solid weeks of plodding. And I did so much like her other book "African Laughter". But this! Narcissistic, if ever I read one. Lessing at 70 or so is saying, "Here, look at me! At how wonderfully I write." To ask the reader to believe that three men, all under the age of 40, are in love with a 65-year-old woman, is ludicrous. And that she, who, hopefully would have gained some insight and wisdom by now, is so grief-stricken over the loss of the 35-year-old (whom she never sleeps with or even kisses or seems to have any meaningful conversations with) that it takes two years to get over, is simply beyond my suspension of disbelief. These people never really talk to one another, never, ever say what they think, at least what Lessing says they think. The world of theatre and its convulsive relationships. I think not.
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