The Good Terrorist (Vintage International)
Doris Lessing
Language: English
Pages: 375
ISBN: 0307389960
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
The Good Terrorist follows Alice Mellings, a woman who transforms her home into a headquarters for a group of radicals who plan to join the IRA. As Alice struggles to bridge her ideology and her bourgeois upbringing, her companions encounter unexpected challenges in their quest to incite social change against complacency and capitalism. With a nuanced sense of the intersections between the personal and the political, Nobel laureate Doris Lessing creates in The Good Terrorist a compelling portrait of domesticity and rebellion.
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said nothing about them, so they, at least, would not be sold to some dealer for a tenth of their value. They—in number 43—now at least owned their own ladders, trestles, and tools. For what that was worth; for as long as that was worth anything. Because of Alice’s preoccupation with the disposition of Philip, the household marked time. Rather, all did save Jocelin, who was at work in an upstairs room on a variety of devices that she was concocting out of the books she referred to as “recipe
God, why don’t you get a job? Do something?” “You seem to have overlooked the fact that we have over three million unemployed,” said Alice self-righteously. “Oh, rubbish. You got a better degree than most of your mates. All my friends’ children of your age got jobs and have careers. You could have done, too, if you had wanted. You didn’t even try. Well, you could start now—your father could help. Have you seen Cedric?” “No, I don’t want to,” said Alice. “I’m not going to live that kind of
over him was, Thank God, I’ll be out of here tomorrow! Philip’s funeral was at ten o’clock on Wednesday. At nine, leaving the others boisterously loading furniture into a van that seemed to fill the street, Alice went to Felicity’s, where she found two other people who had liked Philip when he lived there. The four went to the crematorium, in Felicity’s car. Philip’s sister was there with her husband. They had come down, it seemed, from Aberdeen. Philip was Scottish, a fact that till this moment
sit there and wait.” Alice went back, made sweet coffee, and brought it to the old woman. “What’s your name?” “Mrs. Jackson, Jackson, that’s what I am called.” “My name is Alice and I live at forty-three.” “You sent away all those dirty people, good for you,” said Mrs. Jackson, who was already slipping down in her chair again, like a drunken old doll, the mug sliding sideways in her hand. “I’ll see you in a few minutes,” said Alice, and ran off. The laundrette used up three-quarters of an
of the establishment, she leaned on the sill, watching the goings-on in the street, and listened to the sounds of paper sliding on paper. Should she say her father had agreed she should have some money? If she did, Jill could not say no; and then, on Monday, her father, on being told, would not give her away, would not say: My daughter is a thief. She was about to say: He said I could have five hundred pounds. But then it happened, the incredible, miraculous luck that she now expected, since it
