no way she can open the can until she gets home.
âWait,â she tells her children, âwait.â
She has to pull herself together and go on.
She thinks, My teacher said there is a library, bigger than the supermarket, a big building and it is full of books. The young woman is smiling as she moves on, the dust blowing in her face. I am clever, she thinks. Teacher said I am clever. The cleverest in the schoolâshe said I was. My children will be clever, like me. I will take them to the library, the place full of books, and they will go to school, and they will be teachersâmy teacher told me I could be a teacher. My children will live far from here, earning money. They will live near the big library and enjoy a good life.
You may ask how that piece of the Russian novel ever ended up on that counter in the Indian store?
It would make a pretty story. Perhaps someone will tell it.
On goes that poor girl, held upright by thoughts of the water she will give her children once home, and drink a little of herself. On she goes, through the dreaded dusts of an African drought.
We are a jaded lot, we in our threatened world. We are good for irony and even cynicism. Some words and ideas we hardly use, so worn out have they become. But we maywant to restore some words that have lost their potency.
We have a treasure-house of literature, going back to the Egyptians, the Greeks, the Romans. It is all there, this wealth of literature, to be discovered again and again by whoever is lucky enough to come upon it. A treasure. Suppose it did not exist. How impoverished, how empty we would be.
We own a legacy of languages, poems, histories, and it is not one that will ever be exhausted. It is there, always.
We have a bequest of stories, tales from the old storytellers, some of whose names we know but some not. The storytellers go back and back, to a clearing in the forest where a great fire burns, and the old shamans dance and sing, for our heritage of stories began in fire, magic, the spirit world. And that is where it is held today.
 Ask any modern storyteller and they will say there is always a moment when they are touched with fire, with what we like to call inspiration, and this goes back and back to the beginning of our race, to the great winds that shaped us and our world.
The storyteller is deep inside every one of us. The story-maker is always with us. Let us suppose our world is ravaged by war, by the horrors that we all of us easily imagine. Let us suppose floods wash through our cities, the seas rise. But the storyteller will be there, for it is our imaginations which shape us, keep us, create usâfor good and for ill. It is our stories that will recreate us, when we are torn, hurt, even destroyed. It is the storyteller, the dream-maker, the myth-maker, that is our phoenix, that represents us at our best, and at our most creative.
That poor girl trudging through the dust, dreaming of aneducation for her children, do we think that we are better than she isâwe, stuffed full of food, our cupboards full of clothes, stifling in our superfluities?
I think it is that girl, and the women who were talking about books and an education when they had not eaten for three days, that may yet define us.
© The Nobel Foundation 2007
Read on
Have You Read? More by Doris Lessing
THE GOLDEN NOTEBOOK
Widely considered one of the most influential novels of the twentieth century, The Golden Notebook tells the story of Anna Wulf, a writer who records the threads of her life in four separate notebooks. As she attempts to integrate those fragmented chronicles into one golden notebook, Anna gives voice to the challenges of identity-building in a chaotic world. Known for its literary innovation, The Golden Notebook brilliantly captures the anxieties and possibilities of an era with a vitality that continues to leave its mark on each new generation of readers.
ESSENTIAL DORIS LESSING CD: EXCERPTS FROM THE GOLDEN
âWait,â she tells her children, âwait.â
She has to pull herself together and go on.
She thinks, My teacher said there is a library, bigger than the supermarket, a big building and it is full of books. The young woman is smiling as she moves on, the dust blowing in her face. I am clever, she thinks. Teacher said I am clever. The cleverest in the schoolâshe said I was. My children will be clever, like me. I will take them to the library, the place full of books, and they will go to school, and they will be teachersâmy teacher told me I could be a teacher. My children will live far from here, earning money. They will live near the big library and enjoy a good life.
You may ask how that piece of the Russian novel ever ended up on that counter in the Indian store?
It would make a pretty story. Perhaps someone will tell it.
On goes that poor girl, held upright by thoughts of the water she will give her children once home, and drink a little of herself. On she goes, through the dreaded dusts of an African drought.
We are a jaded lot, we in our threatened world. We are good for irony and even cynicism. Some words and ideas we hardly use, so worn out have they become. But we maywant to restore some words that have lost their potency.
We have a treasure-house of literature, going back to the Egyptians, the Greeks, the Romans. It is all there, this wealth of literature, to be discovered again and again by whoever is lucky enough to come upon it. A treasure. Suppose it did not exist. How impoverished, how empty we would be.
We own a legacy of languages, poems, histories, and it is not one that will ever be exhausted. It is there, always.
We have a bequest of stories, tales from the old storytellers, some of whose names we know but some not. The storytellers go back and back, to a clearing in the forest where a great fire burns, and the old shamans dance and sing, for our heritage of stories began in fire, magic, the spirit world. And that is where it is held today.
 Ask any modern storyteller and they will say there is always a moment when they are touched with fire, with what we like to call inspiration, and this goes back and back to the beginning of our race, to the great winds that shaped us and our world.
The storyteller is deep inside every one of us. The story-maker is always with us. Let us suppose our world is ravaged by war, by the horrors that we all of us easily imagine. Let us suppose floods wash through our cities, the seas rise. But the storyteller will be there, for it is our imaginations which shape us, keep us, create usâfor good and for ill. It is our stories that will recreate us, when we are torn, hurt, even destroyed. It is the storyteller, the dream-maker, the myth-maker, that is our phoenix, that represents us at our best, and at our most creative.
That poor girl trudging through the dust, dreaming of aneducation for her children, do we think that we are better than she isâwe, stuffed full of food, our cupboards full of clothes, stifling in our superfluities?
I think it is that girl, and the women who were talking about books and an education when they had not eaten for three days, that may yet define us.
© The Nobel Foundation 2007
Read on
Have You Read? More by Doris Lessing
THE GOLDEN NOTEBOOK
Widely considered one of the most influential novels of the twentieth century, The Golden Notebook tells the story of Anna Wulf, a writer who records the threads of her life in four separate notebooks. As she attempts to integrate those fragmented chronicles into one golden notebook, Anna gives voice to the challenges of identity-building in a chaotic world. Known for its literary innovation, The Golden Notebook brilliantly captures the anxieties and possibilities of an era with a vitality that continues to leave its mark on each new generation of readers.
ESSENTIAL DORIS LESSING CD: EXCERPTS FROM THE GOLDEN
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