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DORIS LESSING
Under My Skin
Volume One of
My Autobiography, to 1949
Table of Contents
I’ve got you under my skin
I’ve got you deep in the heart of me
So deep in my heart you’re really a part of me,
I’ve got you under my skin.
I’ve tried so not to give in …
COLE PORTER
The individual, and groupings of people, have to learn that they cannot reform society in reality, nor deal with others as reasonable people, unless the individual has learned to locate and allow for the various patterns of coercive institutions, formal and also informal, which rule him. No matter what his reason says, he will always relapse into obedience to the coercive agency while its pattern is within him.
IDRIES SHAH, Caravan of Dreams
No matter where one looks on the face of the earth, wherever there are people, they can be observed syncing when music is played. There is popular misconception about music. Because there is a beat to music, the generally accepted belief is that the rhythm originates in the music, not that music is a highly specialized release of rhythms already in the individual. Otherwise how can one explain the close fit between ethnicity and music?
Rhythm patterns may turn out to be one of the most basic personality traits that differentiates one individual from another.
… when people converse … their brain waves even lock into a single unified sequence. When we talk to each other our central nervous systems mesh like two gears in a transmission.
The power of rhythmic message within the group is as strong as anything I know. It is … a hidden force, like gravity, that holds groups together.
I can remember being quite overwhelmed when I first made cinematographic recordings of groups of people in public. Not only were small groups in sync, but there were times when it seemed that all were part of a larger rhythm.
EDWARD T. HALL, The Dance of Life
‘SHE WAS VERY PRETTY but all she cared about was horses and dancing.’
This refrain tinkled through my mother’s tales of her childhood, and it was years before it occurred to me, ‘Wait a minute, that’s her mother she’s talking about.’ She never used any other words than those, and they could not have been her words, since she did not remember her mother. No, this was what she had heard from the servants, for she unconsciously put on a kitchen face, with a condemning look about her mouth, and she always gave a disapproving sniff. That little sniff evoked for me a downstairs world as exotic as the people in it would have found tales of cannibals and the heathen. Servants and nursemaids brought the little children up, after the frivolous Emily McVeagh died, in childbed, of peritonitis,
