Class 14, December 11th “A mild attack of Locust” by Doris Lessing

A Mild Attack of Locust (Doris Lessing)

Read the short story on the following link:

Exodus 10 New International Version (NIV)

The Plague of Locusts

10 Then the Lord said to Moses, “Go to Pharaoh, for I have hardened his heart and the hearts of his officials so that I may perform these signs of mine among them that you may tell your children and grandchildren how I dealt harshly with the Egyptians and how I performed my signs among them, and that you may know that I am the Lord.”

So Moses and Aaron went to Pharaoh and said to him, “This is what the Lord, the God of the Hebrews, says: ‘How long will you refuse to humble yourself before me? Let my people go, so that they may worship me. If you refuse to let them go, I will bring locusts into your country tomorrow. They will cover the face of the ground so that it cannot be seen. They will devour what little you have left after the hail, including every tree that is growing in your fields. They will fill your houses and those of all your officials and all the Egyptians—something neither your parents nor your ancestors have ever seen from the day they settled in this land till now.’” Then Moses turned and left Pharaoh.

Pharaoh’s officials said to him, “How long will this man be a snare to us? Let the people go, so that they may worship the Lord their God. Do you not yet realize that Egypt is ruined?”

Then Moses and Aaron were brought back to Pharaoh. “Go, worship the Lord your God,” he said. “But tell me who will be going.”

Moses answered, “We will go with our young and our old, with our sons and our daughters, and with our flocks and herds, because we are to celebrate a festival to the Lord.”

10 Pharaoh said, “The Lord be with you—if I let you go, along with your women and children! Clearly you are bent on evil.[a] 11 No! Have only the men go and worship the Lord, since that’s what you have been asking for.” Then Moses and Aaron were driven out of Pharaoh’s presence.

12 And the Lord said to Moses, “Stretch out your hand over Egypt so that locusts swarm over the land and devour everything growing in the fields, everything left by the hail.”

13 So Moses stretched out his staff over Egypt, and the Lord made an east wind blow across the land all that day and all that night. By morning the wind had brought the locusts; 14 they invaded all Egypt and settled down in every area of the country in great numbers. Never before had there been such a plague of locusts, nor will there ever be again. 15 They covered all the ground until it was black. They devoured all that was left after the hail—everything growing in the fields and the fruit on the trees. Nothing green remained on tree or plant in all the land of Egypt.

16 Pharaoh quickly summoned Moses and Aaron and said, “I have sinned against the Lordyour God and against you. 17 Now forgive my sin once more and pray to the Lord your God to take this deadly plague away from me.”

18 Moses then left Pharaoh and prayed to the Lord. 19 And the Lord changed the wind to a very strong west wind, which caught up the locusts and carried them into the Red Sea.[b]Not a locust was left anywhere in Egypt. 20 But the Lord hardened Pharaoh’s heart, and he would not let the Israelites go.


Class 12: November 19th (recovery class). Zadie Smith’s Monsters (Room 230)



“Suddenly summoned to witness some thing great and horrendous, we keep fighting not to reduce it to our own smallness,” wrote John Updike ten years ago in these pages. He watched the towers fall with “the false intimacy of television,” from a tenth-floor apartment in Brooklyn Heights. Over in North West London, we were certainly very small and distant, but we still felt that false intimacy. We are a mixed community, including many Muslims, from Bangladesh, Pakistan, India, the United Arab Emirates, Africa. I grew up with girls who wore the head scarf, a fact that seemed no more remarkable to me at the time than Jewish boys wearing yarmulkes or Hindu kids with bindis on their foreheads. Different world. What enabled it? It helped that so many of the class disparities between us had been partially obscured. United in the same primary schools, we were neither mesmerized by, nor especially frightened of, our differences. Later, that sense of equality became difficult to maintain. Teen-agers are preoccupied with status and justice—they notice difference. Why do some have so much while others have nothing? Natural superiority? Hard work? Historical luck? Or exploitation? For some, the basic political insights of adolescence arrived with an extra jolt: your people over here were hurting your people over there; your home was attacking your home. Then came the cataclysm. The end of the world for nearly three thousand innocent people. The beginning of a different sort of world for the rest of us. From the epicenter in Manhattan, shock waves rippled across Europe. In North West London, a small but significant change: the stereotype of the Muslim boy was transformed. From quiet, sexless, studious child—sitting in the back of class and destined for an engineering degree—to Public Enemy No. 1.

In the ten years that followed, communities like mine became the focus of debate. In 2005, Shadow Home Secretary David Davis called for the end of a multicultural “policy” that permits “people of different cultures to settle without expecting them to integrate into society.” For Nick Griffin, the leader of the British National Party, the problem was not the segregation but the mix: “The whole world faces a big problem with people, so many different people from different ethnic groups mixing that we are losing all our separate cultures and identities, and I think that is a real problem.” We were urged to unite, yet the state continued to fund faith schools. We were urged to separate, but in the 2010 general election (despite a significant increase in their vote) the B.N.P. was unable to get a single M.P. in Parliament. When our own copycat outrage arrived, on 7/7, the “failures of multiculturalism” was again the focus, although a strong feeling of national identity is no obstacle to killing people in your nation, and the British-born bombers’ own stated target was not home affairs but foreign policy. A head scarf became a contested, subversive thing. Invested with this fresh power, the hijab enjoyed new levels of popularity, as much a symbol of cultural solidarity as a religious practice. If a few people placed SHARIA CONTROLLED ZONE posters around Newham, Muslims throughout the country had to suffer the consequences—a local version of asymmetrical warfare. Two months ago, as an unknown individual shot teen-agers on a Norwegian island, commentary converged on the central issue: Muslim fundamentalists or lone maniac?

“We’re monsters, I fear. What monsters we’re”—it’s a line from a recent Frederick Seidel poem, “Downtown,” about the Fourth of July, and the sadness of fireworks over the Hudson (“the flavorful floating shroud”) and the casual brutality of eating shad roe (“What a joy to eat the unborn”). It reminds me of this whole, unlovely decade, which started downtown, and made us all monstrous, me as much as anybody. I was for the war, at first. Later, I was pleased when President Obama promised to commit more troops to Afghanistan, not because I thought it would end that war but because I hoped it would win him the election. I sat at dinner parties and felt envious of people who had not supported the war, as if whether or not a lot of armchair intellectuals did or did not support a war was what the war was actually about. For a few Google-eyed hours, I thought that Sarah Palin was not Trig’s mother. The rise of the Internet dovetailed with this tribalism. You could pass a decade online without ever hearing from the “other.”

About one thing, though, we could all agree: everything had changed. Or had it? The 9/11 perpetrators wanted a world in which (their version of) religious belief trumped all other concerns. But in the real world our concerns are necessarily diverse: we must attend school and find work, provide for children, look after parents. And in these matters we cannot avoid one another for long. Of course, mixed communities are not without tensions—no such community exists. (Relative racial and cultural homogeneity—as Northern Ireland knows—is no guarantee of peace.) But we have many common causes and priorities. It’s to be noted that class meant little to the terrorists: they saw only two human categories, believer and heathen. Here on earth, poverty and privilege cross the religious and the cultural divide. Look a little closer at the recent CCTV footage, in London: we riot together, and together we clean the streets.

Last Christmas, standing in an apartment building in New York, I was struck by a hallway where papier-mâché Stars of David and holy crosses came together in a decorative seasonal theme. Here these “people of the book” (whose religious texts overlap and divide as deeply as either text with the Koran) lived peaceably in the same space, finding one another’s religions by turns amusing, irrational, beautiful, banal. What enabled it? It took generations; it passed through periods of unspeakable horror; sometimes people forgot, sometimes they forgave, and they did both these things imperfectly. Practical matters helped. General economic parity, difficult acts of good will on both sides, and a democratic country in which the apparently impossible has the freedom to happen. It is not a perfect relationship—there’s no such thing—and it took two thousand years to get this far. We forget: these things take time. “Let us realize the arc of the moral universe is long but it bends toward justice,” said Martin Luther King, Jr., who presided over another meeting of supposedly irreconcilable peoples. Not everyone is a monster.




July 4th fireworks exhale over the Hudson sadly.

It is beautiful that they have to disappear.

It’s like the time you said I love you madly.

That was an hour ago. It’s been a fervent year.

I don’t really love fireworks, not really, the flavorful floating shroud

In the nighttime sky above the river and the crowd.

This time, because of the distance upriver perhaps, they’re not loud,

Even the colors aren’t, the patterns getting pregnant and popping.

They get bigger and louder when they start stopping.

They try to rally

At the finale.

It’s the four-hundredth anniversary of Henry Hudson’s discovery—

Which is why the fireworks happen on this side of the island this year.

Shad are back, and we celebrate the Hudson’s Clean Water Act recovery.

What a joy to eat the unborn. We’re monsters, I fear. What monsters we’re.

We’ll binge on shad roe next spring in the delicious few minutes it’s here.





Class 11: November 13th “Postmodernism in Doris Lessing”

I.- What is PostmodernismPostmodern Presentation

II.- The Continuity of Parks by Julio Cortázar

HE HAD BEGUN TO READ THE NOVEL a few days before. He had put it aside because of some urgent business, opened it again on his way back to the estate by train; he allowed himself a slowly growing interest in the plot, in the drawing of characters. That afternoon, after writing a letter to his agent and discussing with the manager of his estate a matter of joint ownership, he returned to the book in the tranquility of his study which looked out upon the park with its oaks. Sprawled in his favorite armchair, with his back to the door, which would otherwise have bothered him as an irritating possibility for intrusions, he let his left hand caress once and again the green velvet upholstery and set to reading the final chapters. Without effort his memory retained the names and images of the protagonists; the illusion took hold of him almost at once. He tasted the almost perverse pleasure of disengaging himself line by line from all that surrounded him, and feeling at the same time that his head was relaxing comfortably against the green velvet of the armchair with its high back, that the cigarettes were still within reach of his hand, that beyond the great windows the afternoon air danced under the oak trees in the park. Word by word, immersed in the sordid dilemma of the hero and heroine, letting himself go toward where the images came together and took on color and movement, he was witness to the final encounter in the mountain cabin. The woman arrived first, apprehensive; now the lover came in, his face cut by the backlash of a branch. Admirably she stanched the blood with her kisses, but he rebuffed her caresses, he had not come to repeat the ceremonies of a secret passion, protected by a world of dry leaves and furtive paths through the forest. The dagger warmed itself against his chest, and underneath pounded liberty, ready to spring. A lustful, yearning dialogue raced down the pages like a rivulet of snakes, and one felt it had all been decided from eternity. Even those caresses which writhed about the lover’s body, as though wishing to keep him there, to dissuade him from it, sketched abominably the figure of that other body it was necessary to destroy. Nothing had been forgotten: alibis, unforeseen hazards, possible mistakes. From this hour on, each instant had its use minutely assigned. The cold-blooded, double re-examination of the details was barely interrupted for a hand to caress a cheek. It was beginning to get dark.
Without looking at each other now, rigidly fixed upon the task which awaited them, they separated at the cabin door. She was to follow the trail that led north. On the path leading in the opposite direction, he turned for a moment to watch her running with her hair let loose. He ran in turn, crouching among the trees and hedges until he could distinguish in the yellowish fog of dusk the avenue of trees leading up to the house. The dogs were not supposed to bark, and they did not bark. The estate manager would not be there at this hour, and he was not. He went up the three porch steps and entered. Through the blood galloping in his ears came the woman’s words: first a blue parlor, then a gallery, then a carpeted stairway. At the top, two doors. No one in the first bedroom, no one in the second. The door of the salon, and then the knife in his hand, the light from the great windows, the high back of an armchair covered in green velvet, the head of the man in the chair reading a novel.

Translation: David Page

III.- “A woman on a roof” by Doris Lessing here: 

IV.- Interview to Doris Lessing

V.- Similarities Between Virginia Woolf and Doris Lessing

Lynda Scott
University of Otago
Department of English

Deep South v.3 n.2 (Winter 1997)

Copyright (c) 1997 by Lynda Scott, all right reserved.

Many critics such as Roberta Rubenstein, Magali Cornier Michael, and Claire Sprague, point out the numerous similarities which exist between Woolf and Lessing, and of course Lessing does deliberately invoke Woolf in The Golden Notebook by naming her woman artist Anna Wulf. In this paper, however, I will focus on what I consider to be the strongest and most interesting common point of reference between the two. This is their common distrust of, yet fascination with, the workings of memory, as well as the construction of a personal sense of selfhood, one which develops from an amalgam of ‘fact’ and ‘fiction,’ ‘actuality’ and a sense of a personal ‘truth.’ Both writers, I believe, use their ‘self-representational’ or ‘autobiographical’ texts as the therapeutic means of ‘Self’-discovery, to exorcise past unpleasantness, to ‘fix’ the past, and to create a significant personal present and a sense of ‘truth.’

I shall discuss first the ways in which both Woolf and Lessing juxtapose ‘fact’ with ‘fiction’ in order to create a meaningful sense of ‘Self.’ Alongside this discussion I shall examine some of the implications of the creation of ‘fictive selves’ through self-representational writing for Woolf and Lessing. My approach, which concentrates on the unreliability of memory as Woolf and Lessing perceived it, necessarily involves a consideration of historiographic metafiction.

Woolf’s approach to autobiography, her concerns with selfhood and writing, and possibly even her own ‘madness,’ I suggest here, become Lessing’s legacy. Certainly, as I have already mentioned, semantic and psychological echoes of Woolf exist in Lessing. By absorbing Woolf into her own work, for example through her fictive ‘self’ Anna in The Golden Notebook, Lessing is confirming to some extent Woolf’s belief that ‘we think back through our mothers if we are women.’[1] At times it seems as though Lessing provides us with a paraphrase of Woolf’s words or at least her sentiments. For example in her autobiographical ‘A Sketch of the Past’ Woolf describes her ideal memoirs and says ‘[w]hat I write today I should not write in a year’s time.’[2] In a corresponding manner Lessing writes in Under My Skin, ‘I am trying to write this book honestly. But were I to write it aged eighty-five, how different would it be?’[3] It is apparent then, that like Woolf, Lessing believes memory to be ‘a careless and lazy organ’ (13).

Just as each is acutely aware of changing perspectives and truths which for Lessing is ‘like climbing a mountain while the landscape changes with every twist in the path’ (UMS, 12), each also feels similar misgivings and apprehensions about the selectivity of memory and the construction of selfhood from memory. They agonise within their texts over the very real possibility of a myriad of equally valid ‘truths’ or ‘Selves.’ Of her memories, for example, Woolf comments,

[b]ut of course as an account of my life they are misleading, because the things one does not remember are as important; perhaps they are more important. Why have I forgotten so many things that must have been, one would have thought, more memorable than what I do remember? (Schulkind, 69)

Years later, the same refrain recurs throughout Lessing’s Under My Skin:

As you start to write at once the question begins to insist: Why do you remember this and not that? Why do you remember in every detail a whole week, month, more, of a long ago year, but then complete dark, a blank? (12)

Taken out of context, Lessing’s sentiments could easily be mistakenly attributed to Woolf, and they closely parallel those of Anna Wulf in The Golden Notebook who laments

[b]ut I can’t remember, it’s all gone. And I get exasperated trying to remember — it’s like wrestling with an obstinate other self who insists on its own kind of privacy. Yet it’s all there in my brain if only I could get at it. I am appalled at how much I didn’t notice, living inside the subjective highly-coloured mist. How do I know that what I ‘remember’ was what was important? What I remember was chosen by Anna, of twenty years ago. I don’t know what this Anna of now would choose.(139)

Both writers therefore share an obvious distrust of memory. According to Rubenstein, ‘[m]ore than Woolf, Lessing consciously acknowledges that memory itself is an elusive, fluid, and often undesirable component of consciousness, whose manifestations depend on the relationship between any present moment and an always receding past’ (16). For instance, in Under My Skin Lessing says ‘[a]nd then — and perhaps this is the worst deceiver of all — we make up our pasts. You can actually watch your mind doing it, taking a little fragment of fact and then spinning a tale out of it’ (13).

Like Lessing’s character Janna in The Diaries of Jane Somers, who gives up on her attempts to separate fact from fiction in the tales of an old woman named Maudie, Woolf and Lessing also come to embrace personal memories and to give credence to ‘stories’ rather than choosing to completely reject them. In Under My Skin, for example, Lessing comes to conclude ‘that the commonsense or factual approach leads to nothing but errors’ (138). Of her novel Martha Quest she writes, ‘I was being a novelist and not a chronicler. But if the novel is not the literal truth, then it is true in atmosphere, in feeling more ‘true’ than this record, which is trying to be ‘factual” (UMS, 162). Lessing deliberately juxtaposes ‘fiction’ and ‘truth,’ her self-representational writings as well as her autobiography proper. They therefore exemplify the definition of historiographic metafiction offered by post modernist theorist Linda Hutcheon. Hutcheon defines historiographic metafiction as a narrative ‘offered as another of the discourses by which we construct our versions of reality,’ and argues that ‘both the construction and the need for it are what are foregrounded in the post-modern novel.’[4] In the light of her definitions, Under My Skin looks very much like a post-modern text and an example of historiographic metafiction, since it ‘[c]asts doubt on the very possibility of any guaranteed meaning, however studied in discourse’ as Hutcheon says (56). InUnder My Skin Lessing insists that

[c]learly I had to fight to establish a reality of my own, against an insistence from the adults that I should accept theirs …. I am deducing this. Why else my preoccupation that went on for years: this is the truth, this is what happened, hold on to it, don’t let them talk you out of it. (13-14)

When recalling their trip to England via Moscow, for instance, Lessing juxtaposes what her mother reconstructs for her, and her own ‘reality’: ‘The story says we were read to, we played with plasticine, we drew pictures with chalks … but what is in my mind is the train rattling into yet another station … the ragged children’ (42).

While Lessing’s autobiographical style allows her to fragment significant events, memories, and sensations, a textual disruption occurs between the two dissimilar narratives — her mother’s and her own. I suggest her awareness of the slipperiness of memory upon which to ground her sense of ‘Self’ leads to a sense of authorial alienation. Lessing’s ‘self-representational’ or ‘autobiographical’ works are therefore nostalgic, as they are also to Woolf, since both writers seek to capture that which can never be regained. To a considerable extent, African Laughter: Four Visits to Zimbabwe (1993) is a lament both for the past and for the distortion of that past by the ravages of time. When close to Banket, the place of her childhood life, she both does and does not want to return there. Lessing and her brother, not having seen each other for several years, now try to reach each other and communicate on a deeper level than superficialities and commonplaces, through traversing the myth-country that her childhood farm and life has become. Unfortunately they find this to be impossible, since it is disturbingly different for each of them, even though as children they were close. Lessing and Harry pepper their conversations with childhood remembrances and each tries to force the other to remember what they can. Too often, however, the cry ‘Do you remember?’ has as its echo, ‘No, I don’t I’m afraid.’ [5]

It is possible therefore, to view Lessing’s self-representational texts, whether ‘fictional’ or ‘non-fictional,’ as textual tools which she creates and manipulates so that she can re-enter the realm of the past. InAfrican Laughter, however, Lessing painfully comments of nostalgia,

When we see remembered scenes from the outside, as an observer, a golden haze seduces us into sentimentality. And what we choose most often to remember is the external aspect of events: sparks flying up into bushes lit by monlight or starlight, their undersides ruddy with flamelight; a face leaning forward into firelight not knowing it is observed and will be remembered. But what was I really feeling then? (72).

I suggest that African Laughter, like all of Lessing’s self-representational works both ‘fictional’ and ‘autobiographical,’ is at least partly her attempt to come to know past selves, because from them she creates characters which she, as author, can manipulate and analyse. Lessing’s self-representational texts are, I suggest, an attempt to ‘fix’ the past, so that she is able to present the ‘truth’ as she perceives it. But the ‘truth’ for Lessing, as for everyone, keeps changing, so that her novels and depictions of past events forever evolve as she attempts to catch hold of this elusive and non-existent ‘truth.’ Schulkind argues in a similar fashion of Woolf that her memory acts ‘as the means by which the individual builds up patterns of personal significance to which to bind his or her life and secure it’ (21). Woolf herself comments that ‘I find that scene making is my natural way of marking the past. Always a scene has arranged itself: representative; enduring’ (16).

Woolf draws upon memory and past ‘stories’ to explicate the present as well as to create it. In The Waves (1931), for instance, a character asks ‘[b]ut what are stories? Toys I twist, bubbles I blow, one ring passes through another, sometimes I begin to doubt if there are stories.’[6] Like Anna Wulf in The Golden Notebook the character has ‘made up thousands of stories’ (17). Furthermore, she realises that she has ‘filled innumerable notebooks with phrases to be used when I have found the one story to which all those phases refer. But I have not yet found the story and I begin to ask, ‘Are there stories?” (17). One detects here, I believe, a longing for a sense of ‘self’ and a form of psychological unity.

I suggest therefore that while both Lessing and Woolf are cognisant of the fallibility, frailty, and unreliability of memory, each manipulates it within their self-representational texts in order to achieve a feeling of psychological wholeness. Certainly Woolf’s characters in The Waves use their writing in order to achieve such completeness. Bernard, for example, when contemplating his poetry says ‘[w]hat did I write last night if it was not good poetry? Am I too fast, too facile? I do not know myself sometimes, or how to measure and name and count out the grains that make me what I am.’[7] Each writer, aware of the many untold stories particular to their own lives, to women, and to people in general, has thus developed her own way of ’embroidery’ to make alive her own past and so also her present. Elizabeth Abel for example of Woolf’s novels that they

are thick with a variety of pasts …. By rendering the past primarily through memory, Woolf diversifies it …. Evading the grip of a unitary fiction, analogous in her eyes to the ego’s tyranny, Woolf generates heterogeneity not only by shifting the narrative perspective but also by pluralising history.[8]

Many of Woolf’s and Lessing’s characters are, I believe, authorial ‘fictive selves,’ in texts rich with layered pasts so that each contains a valid personal ‘truth’ applicable to a given moment in time. Schulkind believes Woolf to be ‘filtering the past through a succession of present selves’ (13), and in a similar vein, Herta Newman regards The Waves to be a “novel of psychology” that will be subdued and the image of the self, radically reordered (55). She notes that various critics have come to view the six figures of The Waves as ‘prototypes, patterns of consciousness, aspects of a single, symbolic psyche’ (55). The critic Alex Zwerdling who refers to Woolf as a ‘proteus,’ would agree with such a view of Woolf.[9] Margaret Homans also provides an analysis of the six characters, or fictive ‘selves’ of Woolf which are found inThe Waves and she believes that ‘[o]nly Bernard accomplishes the inner harmony that all the characters are struggling to achieve’ (60).

It is perhaps significant that Bernard, with his unified self, writes poetry just as Anna Wulf is a writer who achieves psychic integration and the unity of her fictive selves such as Molly, Saul, Ella, and Michael. Claire Sprague points to the multi-personal examples of Anna Wulf in The Golden Notebook and Clarissa Dalloway in Mrs Dalloway to argue that ‘like Woolf, Lessing has developed a unique multi-personal mode, a new time strata, a new way of disrupting narrative viewpoint and the continuity of exterior events.’[10]

To conclude then, Lessing and Woolf both write multipersonal and dialogical ‘self-representational’ or ‘autobiographical’ texts so that they may avoid the presentation of a single or unified ‘truth,’ which they believe would be subjective, nostalgic, and distorted due to memory. As Woolf wrote, and as Lessing continues to write, the past and therefore the present which rests on that past, is pluralised and enriched. Finally, for each woman , it becomes her own personal ‘truth’ and ‘story’.


[1]Roberta Rubenstein, “Fixing the Past: Yearning and Nostalgia in Woolf and Lessing,” Woolf and Lessing: Breaking the Mold, eds. Ruth Saxton and JeanTobin (New York: St Martin’s Press, 1994) 16.

[2]Virginia Woolf, Moments of Being, ed. Jeanne Schulkind, (London: The Hogarth Press, 2nd edn., 1985) 12.

[3]Doris Lessing, Under My Skin: Volume One of My Autobiography, to 1949, (Hammersmith, London: HarperCollinsPublishers, 1994) 17.

[4]Linda Hutcheon, A Poetics of Postmodernism History, Theory Fiction (New York, London: Routledge, 1988) 40.

[5]Doris Lessing, African Laughter: Four Visits to Zimbabwe, 42.

[6]Herta Newman, Virginia Woolf and Mrs Brown: Toward a Realism of Uncertainty (New York, London: Garland Publishing Inc., 1996) 17.

[7]Virginia Woolf, The Waves (Hammersmith, London: Triad GraftonBooks, 1977 First published by The Hogarth Press Ltd., 1931) 66.

[8]Elizabeth Abel, Virginia Woolf and The Fictions of Psychoanalysis (Chicago, London: U of Chicago P., 1989) 1.

[9]Margaret Homans, ed. Virginia Woolf A Collection of Critical Essays (Englewood Cliffs, New York: A Simon and Schuster Prentice-Hall Inc. Company, 1993) 4.

[10]Claire Sprague, ‘Multipersonal and Dialogic Modes in Mrs Dalloway and The Golden Notebook,’ eds. Saxton and Tobin 8.


Abel, Elizabeth. Virginia Woolf and The Fictions of Psychoanalysis. Chicago, London: U of Chicago P, 1989.

Homans, Margaret. ed. Virginia Woolf A Collection of Critical Essays. Englewood Cliffs, New York: A Simon and Schuster Prentice-Hall Inc. Compan,. 1993.

Hutcheon, Linda. A Poetics of Postmodernism: History, Theory Fiction. London: Routledge, 1988.

Lessing, Doris. African Laughter: Four Visits to Zimbabwe. Hammersmith, London: Flamingo, 1993.

______________. Under My Skin,Volume One of My Autobiography, to 1949,. Hammersmith, London: HarperCollinsPublishers, 1994.

______________. The Golden Notebook. London: Michael Joseph Ltd, 1969.

Michael Cornier, Magali. “Woolf’s Between the Acts and Lessing’s The Golden Notebook: From Modern to Postmodern Subjectivity,” Woolf and Lessing Breaking the Mold. Eds. Saxton, Ruth and Tobin, Jean. New York: St. Martin’s Press, Inc. 1994, 39-56.

Newman, Herta. Virginia Woolf and Mrs Brown: Toward a Realism of Uncertainty. New York and London: Garland Publishing Inc, 1996.

Rubenstein, Roberta. “Fixing the Past: Yearning and Nostalgia in Woolf and Lessing,” Woolf and Lessing Breaking the Mold. Eds. Saxton, Ruth and Tobin, Jean. New York: St. Martin’s Press, Inc. 1994. 15-38.

Schulkind, Jeanne. Virginia Woolf Moments of Being. London. The Hogarth Press. 2nd. edn., 1985.

Sprague, Claire. “Multipersonal and Dialogic Modes in Mrs Dalloway and The Golden Notebook,” Woolf and Lessing Breaking the Mold. Eds. Saxton, Ruth and Tobin, Jean. New York: St. Martin’s Press. Inc. 1994. 3-14.

Woolf, Virginia. [1931]The Waves. Hammersmith, London: Triad GraftonBooks. 1977. First published by the Hogarth Press Ltd.


VI.- Start readingSalman Rushdie – Haroun and the Sea of Stories

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