Everything in this post is spot on. Naipaul’s works deal with what it means to be truly homeless, to have no place in the world. And no one was better suited to show us what that meant. Because despite his wealth and acclaim Naipaul was always the stranger in a strange land, with no history or culture of which to call his own. He showed us the rage of the dispossessed, and he refused to make it noble. It is nasty, and ugly, and heartbreaking, and human.
For me the beauty of literature is that at its best it allows us to experience the world in a way that, due to the circumstances of our birth, we might never have otherwise experienced it. And V.S. Naipaul was the best in the world at doing that.