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Lara Feigel
A detail from Tamara de Lempicka’s Les Deux Amies (1923), one of the
artworks in the Modern Couples exhibition. The Polish artist had
relationships with both men and women.
Doris Lessing
Free Woman: Life, Liberation and Doris Lessing by Lara
Feigel – review
What it means to be an intelligent, political woman two
generations after Lessing
Patrick French
Sat 3 Mar 2018 09.00 GMTLast modified on Tue 6 Mar 2018
11.29 GMT
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Doris Lessing’s work united mind, body and feeling. The Children
of Violence series featuring Martha Quest, and above all the novel
The Golden Notebook, had a revolutionary impact on a
generation of women. Lessing asserted that it was possible to
live an intellectual life while attached to a human body: she wrote
of emotion, how hormonal changes around mood, pregnancy or
menstruation might affect the life of the mind without necessarily
diminishing it. Instead of needing to be separated, each aspect
of existence became part of a complete whole. In a liberating
form of autobiographical fiction, Lessing discounted the
prevailing idea of the 1950s that an intelligent, political woman
must be unwomanly, un homme manqué. She wrote with great
perception on the complications of sex, and how it will tie you
more closely to a particular person, which in turn risks altering
your personal freedom.
As with many writers, the books she produced can be seen in
hindsight as an almost inevitable product of circumstance. Before
she had reached the age of 30, she had married, had two
children, divorced, married again, had another child, divorced
again, and sailed to London with one child. She was escaping the
constriction of poor, rural white Rhodesian life, her creative
revolt against which had led to her being spied on as a
communist by the colonial police. Her education was almost
entirely self-generated, done from reading and conversation.
When she reached London she had not yet published a book;
ahead of her lay achievement and fame: more than 60 books,
and the Nobel prize for literature.
For Lara Feigel, at a time of her own frustration with social and
biological expectation, Lessing offered a model of feminism “in
which it was more important to live fully than to live
contentedly”. She writes movingly of her maternal ambivalence,
loving her son even while not wanting him to distract her from
her necessary thinking and writing, and yearning for another
child even while her marriage is falling apart. A reader in modern
literature and culture at King’s College London, Feigel has
something of Lessing’s diligent energy on the page, and in Free
Woman she succeeds in making an extraordinary meditation on
what it means to be a clever, engaged woman two generations
after Lessing.
The ostensible starting point for her book is a sense of
resentment against being coopted into the conventions
surrounding a series of friends’ weddings. Wondering about the
choices made by herself and her contemporaries, she tunes in to
the powerful voice of Lessing. “I could hear her sentences in my
ears as I sat below a hundred metres of tasteful Liberty print
bunting that the bride, her sister and their mother (three
intelligent and expensively educated women) had sewn by
hand.” Like Anna Wulf in The Golden Notebook, she wants to be
free and to exist independently of others in a way that now seems
to be falling out of fashion, as the sacrifices of an earlier
generation are taken for granted. “It seemed to me that Anna’s
refusal to define herself primarily as a wife, mother or lover was
a significant part of the audacity of The Golden Notebook.”
By Lara Feigel
There were too many weddings that summer. White weddings,
gold weddings; weddings in village churches, on beaches, at
woolen mills. Collectively, they seemed to go on for too long and
to involve too much effort, whether it was the effort of the
congregation to reach these much-loved remote places or the
effort of the bride and groom to coordinate flowers, music,
seating plans, personalized vows, homemade confetti and take-
home marmalade. At all of them I chastised myself for my own
mean-spiritedness and hypocrisy (I too am married, and once
devoted a summer to it) but determined that at some point when
not at a wedding I would work out why I minded it all so much.
I came closer to understanding my own truculence when I
attended the wedding of a school friend while halfway through
reading The Golden Notebook, Doris Lessing’s 1962 exploration
of the artistic and sexual life of a “free woman.” Lessing’s voice
is powerful and it had taken hold of me, 50 years later, to the
extent that it seemed to muffle the voices around me. I could
hear her sentences in my ears as I sat below a hundred meters
of tasteful Liberty print bunting that the bride, her sister and their
mother (three intelligent and expensively educated women) had
sewn by hand.
Troubled by the mental picture of a needle threaded, pulled
through and along the fabric, back through, in again, back
through, ad infinitum, I heard Lessing’s central character Anna
Wulf’s pronouncement: “I am interested only in stretching
myself, in living as fully as I can.” For Anna, living fully means
living freely. She has been married, and is prepared to marry
again, but she’s aware of the fragility of any relationship because
love experienced authentically is dangerous. And she remains
uncertain whether she’s willing to allow a sexual relationship to
define her place in the world.
Thinking about her, I realized that my main objection to
these weddings wasn’t a feminist one. I was certainly troubled
by the ease with which we perpetuated the symbolism of the
pallidly virginal bride being handed from one man to another,
and perturbed in this case that it was the women who had done
all that sewing. But it wouldn’t have been much better if the
groom had taken up needlework as well. What I minded more
strongly was the apparent assumption that this remained the
only way to live. Weddings celebrated on this scale seemed to
take for granted a happy-ever-after of decade after decade of
safely monogamous marriage, with appropriate numbers of
children born at appropriate intervals along the way. They
ushered in a world where work was a means to the ultimate end
of enjoyable family life; where love was the “love you” at the end
of a phone call. I felt uncomfortable partly because it seemed to
co-opt everyone in the room into this vision and this made me
claustrophobic, needing urgently to insist on my right to live
fully, without quite knowing what I would want that to entail.
Sitting under that tasteful bunting, I was talking to two
school friends at a table that had been emptied as people headed
towards the dance floor. I asked them what they felt about this
industrious celebration of love and was relieved to find that they
were skeptical too, though one of them was preparing to get
married a few months later and was even (occasioning more
irritation on my part) planning to change her name. We were all
aware that this was not what we’d had in mind when we read
Virginia Woolf and D.H. Lawrence in adolescence, aware that we
had once thought of love as something freer and more radical.
We remembered an evening during the summer of our A
levels when the three of us had lain talking and drinking on the
grass of one of their gardens and, as the sky darkened, each had
confessed, to the surprise of the others, that we were still virgins.
We had all had boyfriends, but we’d assumed an old-fashioned
coyness in delaying the moment of deflowerment, partly out of
fear and partly out of a reluctance to relinquish the independence
of self-sufficiency, though I’m not sure we could have defined it
so coolly at the time. Reared at a school where we’d been taught
that girls could do everything and had no need of boys, we felt
that there would be an element of self-betrayal involved in
entering a state where we became dependent on the desire,
approval and companionship of men.
As the band began to play in the adjoining room, I told them
about The Golden Notebook; about Anna Wulf, who like us was
in her mid-thirties, and her struggle to live as honestly as
possible. I described what I saw as Lessing’s central dilemma,
and how it had helped me to see in retrospect what it was that
we had feared would be lost once we had succumbed to a life of
sex with men.
Lara Feigel
Dr Lara Feigel is a Senior Lecturer in English at King's College
London, where her research is centered on the 1930s and the
Second World War. She is the author of Literature, Cinema and
Politics, 1930-1945 and the editor (with Alexandra Harris) of
Modernism on Sea: Art and Culture at the British Seaside and
(with John Sutherland) of the New Selected Journals of Stephen
Spender. Her most recent book is Free Woman: Life, Liberation
and Doris Lessing. She has also written journalistic pieces for
various publications, including the Guardian, Prospect and
History Today. Lara lives in West Hampstead, London.