I was sorry to learn, from a well-written profile by Mick Brown in the Daily Telegraph’s magazine, that Anita Brookner’s latest novel is likely to prove her last. At least she is going out on a high note with Strangers (Fig Tree, £16.99) – or rather, should I say, a low note since bringing us down has always been her stock in trade.

Fellow novelist A. N. Wilson, in his usual adroit way, summed up her appeal very neatly in a review of 1999’s Undue Influence. “This beautifully crafted book,” he wrote, “is another masterpiece (how does she do it, time after time?) and each plangent, melancholy paragraph is, paradoxically, pure joy . . . Brookner is in the Chekhov league.”

Thus does Mr Wilson reveal himself to be a man after my own heart in literary matters, one who likes to be made miserable. I find powerful material for this, as mentioned here a few weeks ago, from the novels of Richard Yates. Another that never fails to do the trick is his fellow American of an older vintage, Thomas Wolfe. Of his four sprawling novels, I would judge Of Time and the River to be the best.

A writer to whom Brookner is often compared is Henry James, though I have never quite seen this (acute social observation, presumably), just as I have never quite seen the appeal of James (I know, I know . . . my fault). Now his friend, Edith Wharton – I do observe a similarity to Brookner there.

Like many readers, I first came to the works of Anita (as I always refer to her but would never dream of addressing her) through her 1984 Booker Prize-winner Hotel du Lac. This was her fourth novel in four years, written while she was teaching at the Courtauld Institute of Art. She went on to write 19 more, most after her retirement from full-time teaching in 1988 when she was 60.

They came out at roughly annual intervals, a rate matching that of the early Iris Murdoch, who by this time had reduced to biennial publication, as had another of my favourites, Muriel Spark (if as often as that). The retirement, as it would seem, of Dr Brookner brings to end a long period in which there was always something to look forward to, this year or next, from this trio of exceptionally gifted writers.

Though I don’t consider it an urgent necessity to read the Booker winner (indeed, it often proves an unpleasant imposition) I was drawn to Hotel du Lac in large part because of the sharp criticism it received. I am not sure I didn’t detect a hint of sexism in the sneers, those of Private Eye especially (which has form in this area) when it dubbed the book ‘Hotel du Lack of Interest’.

Certainly there were three very strong male contenders that year in David Lodge (Small World), J. G. Ballard (Empire of the Sun) and Julian Barnes (Flaubert’s Parrot). In the end, I am sure the decision was down to the good sense of a judging panel which was headed by the late great Richard Cobb, the former Professor of Modern History at Oxford, whose four volumes of memoirs are among my favourite books, and included among its members the admirable Polly Devlin with whom I twice appeared on editions of Radio 4’s Quote...Unquote.

Clearly, defeat didn’t rankle with Mr Barnes, who went on to become (perhaps already was) one of Dr Brookner’s most devoted friends and admirers.

In the Mick Brown article referred to at the start of the piece, he pointed out how – unusually – you can ‘hear’ the colons and semi-colons as she speaks. Since the perfection of her grammar and use of language is a subject often commented on by reviewers (“Brookner’s writing is meticulous, impeccable and full of simple grace,” Sunday Times) I cannot resist pointing out that on the evidence of Strangers she does not know the meaning of either ‘dilemma’ (page 25) or ‘fulsome’ (pages 37 and 44). I would also suggest there is an otiose comma in her brief author’s note: “All the characters in this novel are imaginary. But I do not doubt that somewhere, out there, they, or others like them, exist.”