Waiting a long time ... Doris Lessing receives the news of her Nobel win, 57 years after the publication of her first novel. Photograph: Martin Godwin
The bestowal of the Nobel Prize for literature is always a big occasion, but the fact that it was given to Doris Lessing this year seems to have struck a particular nerve. Perhaps because she is British; perhaps because of the simple fact of her age. At 87, she is the oldest person ever to receive the prize (and the third oldest in all fields) and it's undoubtedly a fine thing that she should have been recognised after almost 60 years of writing. Then, too, there was the unique grace with which she accepted the news. The "Oh Christ" footage has endeared her to a new generation. Including, I might add, myself.
Before the announcement, like plenty of people my age, I had hardly heard of Lessing. I could probably have told you that she was a writer - but nothing about what she has written. Robert McCrum may say that she is mainly held in regard by readers "over 35", and her output may have garnered sparse publicity in recent years, but that's no mitigation really. It began to feel like a huge oversight.
That's why, combined with the fact that I was feeling nervous withdrawal symptoms after finishing my Booker Club, I decided to read one of her books as soon as possible, reasoning that I might as well start with her debut: The Grass Is Singing.
Of course, it's always hard to approach a book without prejudice, and given what I now knew about Lessing's stature, I felt especially overawed when breaking open the spine of this one. How could she live up to her reputation?
Such feelings evaporated, however, as soon as I read the first paragraph. Like plenty of the best writing, it made me drop my baggage, forget about the external issues and plunge headlong into a uniquely discomfiting world. It's worth quoting in full:
"The newspaper did not say much. People all over the country must have glanced at the paragraph with its sensational heading and felt a little spurt of anger mingled with what was almost satisfaction, as if some belief had been confirmed, as if something had happened which could only have been expected. When natives steal, murder or rape, that is the feeling white people have."
This tone of cold, measured fury is maintained throughout as Lessing fills in the background to the murder mentioned in the paper. The victim, Mary Turner, was a happy single woman enjoying the benefits of the privileged white lifestyle in a southern African town until she chanced to overhear some friends making fun of her because she was too old to marry. As a result she plumped for Dick Turner, a fairly decent man, but an utterly useless farmer. He took her to live in rural isolation and poverty. There, she abused her black servants, lost hope, and went slowly and inexorably mad, finally entering an unbalanced sexual relationship with the man who would kill her.
It's hard to re-imagine the impact such a book must have had on its release. The unequivocal condemnation of racial politics in South Africa and Rhodesia, and the brutal demonstration of how and why the contemporary system was unsustainably unjust must have gone down very differently in 1950. Especially, it's worth noting, coming from a woman unafraid to express the sexual fear that underlies much of the perversion of racism. This was a time, after all, when, even on her book jacket, Lessing could be described as "busy writing another" novel, like an unexpectedly diligent child. The lightning has long since gone to earth and much of it - mercifully - reads like history.
That's no criticism, of course, and I have few to make of this book. It contains plenty of the rough edges one might expect from a debut, but mostly these add to its ragged power. The character of Mary could be cited as problematic. Certainly, she isn't entirely believable. Her decisions are too universally pig-headed, too clearly directed towards the fate we already know is in store for her, and they too often follow sharp turning points decreed by dei ex machina like those gossiping friends she just happens to overhear.
As a tragic character, however, Mary is highly effective. This "dry stick" of a woman has doom written all over her. Her death may be the result - as it's put in one of the many small moments of pitch perfect writing - of "putting her hand on a snake", but it is as inevitable and glaring as the heat of the African sun. The way Lessing maintains the pressure is masterful. The story bubbles and steams like a pan of milk, while Lessing manipulates the gas just enough to prevent it from boiling over until the very end. Then, it overflows with such force that everything is extinguished.
At the back of my mind, I always had the question of whether The Grass Is Singing would still be read if Lessing hadn't gone on to such great things afterwards. Maybe it would - at least as a rare literary pleasure for students of post-war southern Africa. That question is too much of a historical "what-if", however. A better one might be whether the book is still worth reading, to which the answer is a simple yes. Undoubtedly, it made me want to read more Lessing.
Next time, at the kind suggestion of posters on the Booker Club, I'm going to start trawling through the past winners of that prize. I'll be starting at the beginning - 1969 and PH Newby's Something To Answer For.
I thought it might also be interesting to give things a more international flavour by alternating with past Nobel winners - reading suggestions will be gladly accepted.
