Winter in July

Doris Lessing

‘I believe that the chief gift from Africa to writers, white and black, is the continent itself, its presence which for some people is like an old fever, latent always in their blood; or like an old wound throbbing in the bones as the air changes. … Africa gives you the knowledge that man is a small creature, among other creatures, in a large landscape.’

Written with all the angry compassion of first-hand knowledge, these stores reveal Africa in the raw – an Africa unknown to the vast majority of Europeans. Here is a vivid, unforgettable evocation of its sounds and smells, its stark power and savage grandeur, its agony and ultimate tragedy.

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