Putting the Questions Differently - Doris Lessing

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moral standards.

      Lessing: No, I don’t think there can be any fixed moral standards. I mean, you can pay lip service to a fixed moral standard because it saves you trouble, which I am perfectly prepared to do. I have got a different attitude towards hypocrisy, perhaps.

      Bigsby: Yet isn’t there a strong moral drive in your work, a sense of trying to stop a headlong rush towards disaster by deflecting your reader away from a dangerous path.

      Lessing: When you say that, it sounds as though I believe I can do it.

      Bigsby: I half-think you do.

      Lessing: I think in the past I have had some such thoughts, that if enough writers write this, which God knows we do, if enough writers say, “For God’s sake, look at what is happening,” things might change. But I have gone back to a thought I had in the Children of Violence series right at the beginning. I reread Martha Quest recently. Do you remember the passage when she stands at the door and watches the prisoners walk past in handcuffs and thinks that this has been described now in literature for so long and nothing has changed. Well, you know, this is a very terrible thought for a writer to have, and this is another of these complexes I live with because with one-half of myself I think I don’t see the point of it, I don’t think we change anything.

      Bigsby: That is the function of art then, is it, to change reality or to change the way people perceive reality?

      Lessing: I think the function of real art, which I don’t aspire to, is to change how people see themselves. I wonder if we do. If we do it is very temporary. Let’s go back to the Russians. You can say that Turgenev and Tolstoy and all that crowd of giants, in fact, changed how people saw themselves. They did, but to what end? Because look at the Russians now. I have just finished reading a book called The Russians, by an American correspondent in Russia, and it is very clear there is very little difference between a communist society and a capitalist society. I think perhaps the communist society is worse, but there isn’t very much difference; they have got a new ruling class, a differently based class, but it is a highly privileged class that has got every intention of hanging on to its privileges, and a whole mass of serfs who get very little. And, as for freedom, there is as little of it as there was under the czars. So you ask yourself, I ask myself, if you can have a blaze of marvelous writers, which they had, all shouting the same thing, which they did, in one way or another, and yet they have so little effect, what then?

      Now it so happens that I am a writing animal and I can’t imagine myself not writing; I literally get quite ill if I don’t write a bit. Perhaps that is my problem and not anyone else’s.

      

      Bigsby: But I wonder if in a sense you don’t compound that determinism. Take a book like Shikasta. Contained in it is a version of world history, history as pathology, as degeneration, as movement towards catastrophe. But we discover that that movement is not chance, it is not arbitrary; it is actually the result of intervention, of manipulations by various distant star systems. That being so, aren’t you proposing a determinism in which it is impossible to resist this onward movement because it derives from outside of humanity?

      Lessing: Well, you see, this is what I think I think, or what I think now. I don’t know what I will think in ten years’ time. I think, in fact, that we do not have much influence on events, but we think we do, we imagine we do. There is a marvelous Sufi story about the mouse who, through a series of accidents, becomes the owner of a cow. It has the end of a rope which goes around the cow’s neck in its mouth and as the cow wanders out across the countryside it cannot control the cow. But as the cow stops to eat some grass it shouts, “That’s right, eat up some grass,” and when the cow turns left it shouts, “That’s right, turn left.” Well, this is what I think we’re like because it seems to me self-evident. I know that is arrogant, but just look at the course of events. We are continually, and by “we” I am now talking about politicians, suggesting decisions to cope with the results of other decisions which have turned out quite differently from what was expected. We do not plan, we do not say what is going to happen.

      Bigsby: And is there a governing manipulative force behind this?

      Lessing: No, I don’t think so. But I do not see humanity as the great crown of all creation. Let’s put it this way: we are sending rockets at this moment around Jupiter. Why do we assume that we are the only people with technological knowhow when the astronomers and physicists talk in terms of planets, many many hundreds of thousands of inhabited planets. I mean, it is not some lunatic novelist who is talking. The novelist now cannot keep up with the physicists in what they say.

      Bigsby: Isn’t there a danger, though, that if you accept this view you are in fact advising people that there is no point in playing a role in the social world or indeed in attempting to intervene in history at all? You are inviting them to be supine in the face of violence.

      Lessing: No, I am not. Certainly I would never have anything to do with politics again unless I was forced at the point of a gun, having seen what happens.

      Bigsby: Early on in your work you were interested in the problem of the individual’s relationship to the group; that is, you had a conception of the individual as apart from the group and then negotiating his or her relationship with it. But isn’t individuality without meaning once you acknowledge sheer determinism?

      Lessing: No, I don’t see that at all. I mean, this is a very ancient philosophical debate. Can you have free will if God has planned everything? Well, the answers to that, as you know, have been going on for centuries, particularly in the West.

      Bigsby: But your view has changed, hasn’t it, because even in the Children of Violence series at the beginning Martha Quest is very much the focus of the book: things are filtered through her sensibility. But in the last volume, which I presume you hadn’t actually predicted when you started writing the sequence, we move through catastrophe to a situation in which Martha Quest disappears from the center of the novel, and she disappears because the situation has changed fundamentally and she exists only insofar as she serves the perpetuation of the race in some sense. It is the sheer survival of the group that becomes the important thing at that stage. The individual has been reduced by the impact of history.

      Lessing: But she has lived her life and has influenced events and individuals.

      Bigsby: Yes, but in the context of a deterministic move towards catastrophe. In your later books individuals seem to be admired to the extent that they realize that their chief function is to submerge themselves in a generality. You talk about moving from “I” to “we,” as though a state of being “I” were in some sense undesirable, something to be transcended.

      Lessing: I am really not chopping logic. I think that the individual is extremely important. I think the individual is more and more important in what we are going into, which is horrific. I do think that what matters is evolution. I think that the human race is evolving probably into something better through its usual path of horror and mistakes because when have we ever done anything else, when has history ever shown anything different?

      Bigsby: So history isn’t pure pathology; it reaches some kind of critical point of regeneration.

      Lessing: I don’t think like this. I find it very difficult. You keep saying things are different from each other. You see it as either/or. While there is something in me which I recognize is uniquely me, and which obviously interests me more than other things and which I am responsible for, at the same time I have a view of myself in history, as something which has been created by the past and conditioned by the present. And when I die I will have left something, for good or for bad, not because I am a writer but because I am alive. In the mid-’50s I was preoccupied with the relationship between an individual and political groups because all the people I knew at that time, or nearly all of them, were political in one way or another; they were either

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