Walking in the Shade: Volume Two of My Autobiography, 1949 -1962
The second volume of the autobiography of Doris Lessing, winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature.‘Walking in the Shade’ begins in 1949, as Doris Lessing arrives in London with nothing but her young son and the manuscript of her first novel. With humour and clear-sightedness, she records her battles of the next decade: her involvement with communism, her love affairs, her struggle with poverty, the difficulties she faced as a young single mother.But as well there is the success of that first novel, ‘The Grass Is Singing’, and meetings with personalities and opinion-makers – Kenneth Tynan, John Osborne, Bertrand Russell and others.Describing, too, the genesis of ‘The Golden Notebook’, this book sees Lessing emerge as one of the most exciting, and groundbreaking, novelists of the post-war generation, and one of the twentieth century’s great writers.
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DORIS LESSING
Walking in the Shade
Volume Two of
My Autobiography, 1949â1962
Fourth Estate
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
Published by Flamingo 1998
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 1997
Copyright © Doris Lessing 1998
Doris Lessing asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
âCoercive Agenciesâ, reprinted by permission from Caravan of Dreams by Idries Shah (Octagon Press Ltd, London 1968).
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Source ISBN: 9780006388890
Ebook Edition © JUNE 2013 ISBN: 9780007396498 Version: 2016-02-15
Contents
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 with him.
IDRIES SHAH, Caravan of Dreams
HIGH ON THE SIDE OF THE TALL SHIP, I held up my little boy and said, âLook, thereâs London.â Dockland: muddy creeks and channels, greyish rotting wooden walls and beams, cranes, tugs, big and little ships. The child was probably thinking, But ships and cranes and water was Cape Town, and now itâs called London. As for me, real London was still ahead, like the beginning of my real life, which would have happened years before if the war hadnât stopped me coming to London. A clean slate, a new page â everything still to come.
I was full of confidence and optimism, though my assets were minimal: rather less than £150; the manuscript of my first novel, The Grass Is Singing, already bought by a Johannesburg publisher who had not concealed the fact he would take a long time publishing it, because it was so subversive; and a few short stories. I had a couple of trunkfuls of books, for I would not be parted from them, some clothes, some negligible jewellery. I had refused the pitiful sums of money my mother had offered, because she had so little herself, and besides, the whole sum and essence of this journey was that it was away from her, from the family, and from that dreadful provincial country Southern Rhodesia, where, if there was a serious conversation, then it was â always â about The Colour Bar and the inadequacies of the blacks. I was free. I could at last be wholly myself. I felt myself to be self-created, self-sufficient. Is this an adolescent I am describing? No, I was nearly thirty. I had two marriages behind me, but I did not feel I had been really married.
I was also exhausted, because the child, two and a half, had for the month of the voyage woken at five, with shouts of delight for the new day, and had slept reluctantly at ten every night. In between he had never been still, unless I was telling him tales and singing him nursery rhymes, which I had been doing for four or five hours every day. He had had a wonderful time.
I was also having those thoughts â perhaps better say feelings â that disturb every arrival from Southern Africa who has not before seen white men unloading a ship, doing heavy manual labour, for this had been what black people did. A lot of white people, seeing whites work like blacks, had felt uneasy and threatened; for me, it was not so simple. Here they were, the workers, the working class, and at that time I believed that the logic of history would make it inevitable they should inherit the earth. They â those tough, muscled labouring men down there â and, of course, people like me, were the vanguard of the working class. I am not writing this down to ridicule it. That would be dishonest. Millions, if not billions, of people were thinking like that, using this language.
I have far too much material for this second volume. Nothing can be more tedious than a book of memoirs millions of words long. A little book called
