our earth on which the whole of life depends. We’re pumping so much rubbish up there that we’re changing that layer. The forecasts are various, because after all nobody knows very much, even scientists. We could destroy all organic life.
Terkel: If this is likely to happen, we come back to lack of imagination again, don’t we? Through these characters, Martha and Lynda, you’re saying that there’s something in the human psyche not yet explored?
Lessing: It couldn’t be with human beings as they are now; I think we’re evolving into better people perhaps. As a part of this vortex we’re in, it’s possible that we’re changing into people with greater capacities for imagination, and that we are going to be regarded as the “missing link,” the transition people, and we’ll have much better people.
Terkel: You know that old Chinese curse that the science-fiction writer Arthur C. Clarke uses: may you live in interesting times.
Lessing: Yes, indeed, we are living in interesting times.
Terkel: Let me ask you a question, which I know has become increasingly tiresome, yet being in America you’ve been asked it so often. To many militant women in America, you are the Simone de Beauvoir of Britain, particularly because of The Golden Notebook. I suppose you encounter this very often, because you’re laughing. Now this always throws you, doesn’t it?
Lessing: No, I’ve got terribly bored with it – that’s the truth – because I don’t think The Golden Notebook is about what they say it was about. Now I can modestly say that it has a large variety of themes, one of them being the sex war; but I now find myself, because I’m overreacting and impatient, in what sounds like a lack of sympathy for women who I know are often under very heavy pressure. But I think this whole trouble between men and women is a symptom of something very much bigger. We’re not going to solve what’s wrong between men and women by handing insults to each other. Something else has to be put right.
The climate has changed in Britain very sharply, and you’ll find there’s very much less tension between the younger generation, men and women, and people in my age group. Why? There are always physical things which change these emotional reactions, which people tend to forget. If you get a balance between the sexes, a lot of tension goes out. You should provide day nurseries and equal wages for women. My personal bias is not to sit around discussing psychology; one should be out battling for better nurseries and equal wages. That’s where this battle has to be fought.
Terkel: So you see this quote, unquote Women’s Liberation as not unrelated to the human battle itself; that is, not something separate and apart?
Lessing: I think people are scared stiff and they’re beating hell out of each other, that’s all, in one way or another. I can’t find anything helpful to say about this, you see, because I think it’s a minor thing – the cause of great unhappiness, but it’s not the most important thing.
Terkel: You happen to be a writer who is a woman. These characters, Lynda and Martha, could’ve as easily been two men, couldn’t they?
Lessing: Yes.
Terkel: You deal with many fascinating aspects of the contemporary world, but we come back to this theme that man has not yet discovered his possibilities.
Lessing: No, I think they’re just beginning. We’re on the threshold. We should be alert all the time for what we’re overlooking. You see, I don’t think some things are going to happen; they’re happening now. We should try to be more awake to what’s happening in our friends and ourselves because even just slightly more awake we could begin to see things happening. We always talk as if things are going to start happening in fifty years’ time. But we overlook what’s happening now. Will you name me a society ever that hasn’t had great blind spots that afterwards people look backward on and wonder how it’s possible that those people were so blind? What are our blind spots?
Terkel: So it’s asking the impertinent question, the hitherto unasked question?
Lessing: Yes, it’s always a good idea in any set-up where there’s that question or that idea which seems most stupid and ridiculous to ask whether it really is so stupid and ridiculous.
One Keeps Going Joyce Carol Oates
Joyce Carol Oates’s interview was conducted in Mrs. Lessing’s London home in spring 1972 and originally appeared in The Southern Review. Copyright © 1972 by Joyce Carol Oates. Reprinted with permission.
It is a bright, fresh, cold day in London, one of those excellent winter days that seem to promise spring. But it is already spring here, by the calendar, the spring of 1972, not winter, and one’s expectations are slightly thrown off – everything has been blooming here for months, and now trees are in full leaf, the sun is a very powerful presence in the sky, but still it is strangely cold, as if time were in a permanent suspension. Walking along Shoot-Up Hill in Kilburn, London, I am aware of people’s steamy breaths – in mid-May! – and as always I am a little disconcerted by the busyness of main thoroughfares, the continual stream of taxis and shiny red double-decker buses and private automobiles, and the quiet that attends this commotion. It seems so unexpected, the absence of horns, the absence of noise. Americans in London are disoriented by the paradox of such enormous numbers of people crowded into small areas without obvious intrusions upon one another, or even obvious visual displays of their crowdedness. It is usually the case that a one-minute walk off a busy road will bring one to absolute quiet – the pastoral improbability of Green Park, which is exactly like the country and even smells like the country, a few seconds’ stroll from Piccadilly on one side and the Mall on the other – and Doris Lessing’s home, only a few hundred yards from Kilburn High Road, incredibly quiet and private, as remote a setting as any home deep in the country.
She lives in the top-floor flat of a handsome, sturdy, three-storied house on Kingscroft Road, a short, curving street of single and semidetached homes, with brick or stone walls that shield their gardens from the street. There is a fragrant smell of newly-mown grass in the air, and the profusion of flowers and full-leafed trees seem out of place in the cold. Upstairs, the large room that serves Mrs. Lessing as both a dining room and a workroom looks out upon a yard of trees, delicate foliage that is illuminated by sunshine just as I am shown into the room.
It is a room of spacious proportions: at one end a wide windowsill given over to trays of small plants, at the other end an immense writing desk covered with books and papers. The flat – fairly large by London standards – is well-lived-in and comfortable, filled with Mrs. Lessing’s own furniture, rugs, pillows, and many shelves and tables of books.
Doris Lessing is direct, womanly, very charming. She wears her long, graying black hair drawn into a bun at the back of her head; her face is slender and attractive, exactly the face of the photographs, the “Doris Lessing” I had been reading and admiring for so long. Meeting her at last I felt almost faint – certainly unreal – turning transparent myself in the presence of this totally defined, self-confident, gracious woman. I had arrived at Kilburn half an hour early, in order to wander around, to see the neighborhood in which she lived; and now, meeting her at last, I marveled at how easily the space between us had been crossed. Surely everything must
