The Cleft

by Doris Lessing

Overview

From Doris Lessing, "one of the most important writers of the past hundred years" (Times of London), comes a brilliant, darkly provocative alternative history of humankind's beginnings.

In this fascinating and beguiling novel, Lessing confronts the themes that inspired much of her early writing: how men and women manage to live side by side in the world and how the troublesome particulars of gender affect every aspect of our existence.

In the last years of his life, a Roman senator retells the history of human creation and reveals the little-known story of the Clefts, an ancient community of women living in an Edenic coastal wilderness. The Clefts have neither need nor knowledge of men; childbirth is controlled through the cycles of the moon, and they bear only female children. But with the unheralded birth of a strange new child—a boy—the harmony of their community is suddenly thrown into jeopardy.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9780060834876
Publisher:	HarperCollins
Publication date:	01/29/2008
Pages:	272
Product dimensions:	5.31(w) x 8.00(h) x 0.62(d)

About the Author

Winner of the 2007 Nobel Prize in Literature, Doris Lessing was one of the most celebrated and distinguished writers of our time, the recipient of a host of international awards, including the Somerset Maugham Award, the David Cohen Memorial Prize for British Literature, the James Tait Black Prize for best biography, Spain's Prince of Asturias Prize and Prix Catalunya, and the S. T. Dupont Golden PEN Award for a Lifetime's Distinguished Service to Literature.

Hometown:

London, England

Date of Birth:

October 22, 1919

Place of Birth:

Persia (now Iran)

Read an Excerpt

The Cleft
A Novel

Chapter One

I saw this today.

When the carts come in from the estate farm as the summer ends, bringing the wine, the olives, the fruits, there is a festive air in the house, and I share in it. I watch from my windows like the house slaves, for the arrival of the oxen as they turn from the road, listen for the creak of the cart. Today the oxen were wild-eyed and anxious, because of the noisy overfull road to the west. Their whiteness was reddened, just like the slave Marcus's tunic, and his hair was full of dust. The watching girls ran out to the cart, not only because of all the delicious produce they would now put away into the storerooms, but because of Marcus, who had in the last year become a handsome youth. His throat was too full of dust to let him return their greetings, and he ran to the pump, snatched up the pitcher there, drank—and drank—poured water over his head, which emerged from this libation a mass of black curls—and dropped the pitcher, through haste, on the tile surround, where it shattered. At this, Lolla, whose mother my father had bought during a trip to Sicily, an excitable explosive girl, rushed at Marcus screaming reproaches and accusations. He shouted back, defending himself. The other servants were already lifting down the jars of wine and oil, and the grape harvest, black and gold, and it was a busy, loud scene. The oxen began lowing and now, and with an ostentatiously impatient air, Lolla took up a second pitcher, dipped it in the water and ran with it to the oxen, where she filled their troughs, which were nearly empty. It was Marcus's responsibility to make sure the oxen got theirwater as soon as they arrived. They lowered their great heads and drank, while Lolla again turned on Marcus, scolding and apparently angry. Marcus was the son of a house slave in the estate house and these two had known each other all their lives. Sometimes he had worked here in our town house, sometimes she had gone for the summer to the estate. Lolla was known for her quick temper, and if Marcus had not been hot and dusty after the long slow journey he would probably have laughed at her, teased her out of her fit of impatience. But these two were no longer children: it was enough only to see them together to know her crossness, his sullenness, were not the result only of a very hot afternoon.

He went to the oxen, avoiding their great tossing horns, and began soothing them. He freed them from their traces, and led them to the shade of the big fig tree, where he slipped the traces over a branch. For some reason Marcus's tenderness with the oxen annoyed Lolla even more. She stood, watching, while the other girls were carrying past her the produce from the cart, and her cheeks were scarlet and her eyes reproached and accused the boy. He took no notice of her. He walked past her as if she were not there, to the veranda, where he pulled out another tunic from his bundle and, stripping off the dusty tunic, he again sluiced himself with water, and without drying himself—the heat would do that in a moment—he slipped on the fresh one. Lolla seemed calmer. She stood with her hand on the veranda wall, and now she was penitent, or ready to be. Again he took no notice of her, but stood at the end of the veranda, staring at the oxen, his charges. She said, 'Marcus . . .' in her normal voice, and he shrugged, repudiating her. By now the last of the jars and the fruit had gone inside. The two were alone on the veranda. 'Marcus,' said Lolla again, and this time coaxingly. He turned his head to look at her, and I would not have liked to earn that look. Contemptuous, angry—and very far from the complaisance she was hoping for. He went to the gate to shut it, and turned from it, and from her. The slaves' quarters were at the end of the garden. He took up his bundle and began walking—fast, to where he would lodge that night. 'Marcus,' she pleaded. She seemed ready to cry. He was about to go into the men's quarters and she ran across and reached him as he disappeared into the door.

I did not need to watch any longer. I knew she would find an excuse to hang about the courtyard—perhaps petting and patting the oxen, giving them figs, or pretend the well needed attention. She would be waiting for him. I knew that he would want to go off into the streets with the other boys, for an evening's fun—he was not often here in this house in Rome itself. But I knew too that these two would spend tonight together, no matter what he would have preferred.

This little scene seems to me to sum up a truth in the relations between men and women.

Often seeing something as revealing, when observing the life of the house, I was impelled to go into the room where it was kept, the great pack of material which I was supposed to be working on. I had had it now for years. Others before me had said they would try to make something of it.

What was it? A mass of material accumulated over ages, originating as oral history, some of it the same but written down later, all purporting to deal with the earliest record of us, the peoples of our earth.

It was a cumbersome, unwieldy mass and more than one hopeful historian had been defeated by it, and not only because of its difficulty, but because of its nature. Anyone working on it . . .

The Cleft
A Novel. Copyright © by Doris Lessing. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.

What People are Saying About This

Elsbeth Lindner

“A revised origin of species…ironic, provocative, epic, heretical, post-modern…vividly descriptive”

Alan Cheuse

“Superb and daring…What an amazing book...A marvelous…gift from one of the great mothers of the contemporary novel.”

Editorial Reviews

One of postcolonial fiction’s brightest lights makes mythic the battle of the sexes. . . . A dark parable, powerful . . . ” — Kirkus Reviews

“A superb and daring work…An extraordinary vision of the establishment of human life on Earth that overturns every other way of seeing it…As speculative and outrageous as it is, it is also convincing in the way all fine art is convincing…What an amazing book, bringing together as it does Lessing’s radicalism, her feminism and her propensity for speculative fiction in a marvelous…gift from one of the great mothers of the contemporary novel.” — Alan Cheuse, Chicago Tribune

“Doris Lessing-iconoclast and feminist icon…stirs up debate…She has written a revised origin of species…ironic, provocative, epic, heretical, post-modern…vividly descriptive” — Elsbeth Lindner, Miami Herald

“Lessing, as she so often does, begins with stereotypes and ends with archetypes…This, she says is how it is and always has been with men and women.” — John Leonard, Harper's Magazine

“At the age of 87, the grande dame of British letters has lost none of the grit or political drive that has propelled and compelled her writing over the years...At its core, THE CLEFT is a creation myth...Lessing...tells an interesting tale, one that is both cautionary and consistent with what we all know to be true—we can’t live with ‘em and we can’t live without ‘em.” — Baltimore Sun

“Outspoken, prolific, and influential, Lessing has cycled through an array of literary genres in her quest to tell stories that protest prejudice, fathom consciousness, and chart the entrenched battle between the sexes….A mordantly entertaining fable rich in incident, discernment, and reflection.” — Donna Seaman, Booklist

“Eminent novelist Lessing offers an alternative origin story for the human race.” — Publishers Weekly

“Like Philip Roth’s EVERYMAN, [THE CLEFT] has the feeling of a conceptual fable, a pared down form that perhaps only writers who have tried so much can permit themselves. Where Roth gave us life told as a tale by a mortal and altogether male body, Lessing gives us a myth of origin and a speculation on how sexual difference tumbled us into history where generation is key.” — Lisa Appignanesi, The Times (London)

“Lessing satirizes the unchanging behavioral patterns of men and women…Her engaging tale is told with the simplicity of an aural history committed to memory.” — New Statesman

“The raw excitement of life in an age when fire was a novelty, and notions of time, family, morality, were completely alien, is well captured…Pure entertainment; an amusing series of what-ifs by one of the world’s great storytellers.” — Sunday Telegraph

“A distinctly feminine fiction…A measured acknowledgement of a universal ignorance, which compels men and women to be only belatedly aware of what makes them most themselves.” — Times Literary Supplement (London)

“A bold, inventive and challenging book from a writer who continues to enlighten and astonish us.” — Michael Arditti, Arts & Book Review

“Thought-provoking and compelling…This multifaceted account of life, love, gender, history, and the power of story is engrossing." — Library Journal

From the Publisher

Doris Lessing-iconoclast and feminist icon…stirs up debate…She has written a revised origin of species…ironic, provocative, epic, heretical, post-modern…vividly descriptive

Elsbeth Lindner

At the age of 87, the grande dame of British letters has lost none of the grit or political drive that has propelled and compelled her writing over the years...At its core, THE CLEFT is a creation myth...Lessing...tells an interesting tale, one that is both cautionary and consistent with what we all know to be true—we can’t live with ‘em and we can’t live without ‘em.

Baltimore Sun

The raw excitement of life in an age when fire was a novelty, and notions of time, family, morality, were completely alien, is well captured…Pure entertainment; an amusing series of what-ifs by one of the world’s great storytellers.

Sunday Telegraph

Lessing satirizes the unchanging behavioral patterns of men and women…Her engaging tale is told with the simplicity of an aural history committed to memory.

New Statesman

Lessing, as she so often does, begins with stereotypes and ends with archetypes…This, she says is how it is and always has been with men and women.

John Leonard

Like Philip Roth’s EVERYMAN, [THE CLEFT] has the feeling of a conceptual fable, a pared down form that perhaps only writers who have tried so much can permit themselves. Where Roth gave us life told as a tale by a mortal and altogether male body, Lessing gives us a myth of origin and a speculation on how sexual difference tumbled us into history where generation is key.

Lisa Appignanesi

Outspoken, prolific, and influential, Lessing has cycled through an array of literary genres in her quest to tell stories that protest prejudice, fathom consciousness, and chart the entrenched battle between the sexes….A mordantly entertaining fable rich in incident, discernment, and reflection.

Donna Seaman

A bold, inventive and challenging book from a writer who continues to enlighten and astonish us.

Michael Arditti

A distinctly feminine fiction…A measured acknowledgement of a universal ignorance, which compels men and women to be only belatedly aware of what makes them most themselves.

Times Literary Supplement (London)

The raw excitement of life in an age when fire was a novelty, and notions of time, family, morality, were completely alien, is well captured…Pure entertainment; an amusing series of what-ifs by one of the world’s great storytellers.

Sunday Telegraph

Superb and daring…What an amazing book...A marvelous…gift from one of the great mothers of the contemporary novel.

Alan Cheuse

Eminent novelist Lessing offers an alternative origin story for the human race, indirectly recalling the alternate world speculations of her Canopus in ArgosSF novels. Positing that the primal human stock was female rather than male, Lessing invents a cult of ancient women called the Clefts, a name derived, in part, from that essential part of female anatomy. The story of the Clefts is bookended by the journal of a Roman historian, who interprets ancient documents stating that females were originally impregnated by "a fertilizing wind or a wave," to give birth to female children. But one day a "deformed" baby is born, with a "lumpy swelling" never seen before. The first rape and the first murder follow soon enough, as do the first instances of consensual intercourse and the babies-the first of a new race, with a nature derived from both sexes-that are the result. Humor, which may or may not be intentional, is introduced into a generally lethargic text when women and men discover they can't live with or without each other, and the battle of the sexes commences. The novel has elements of a feminist tract, but the story it tells doesn't present a significant challenge to that of Adam and Eve. (Aug.)

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Publishers Weekly

In this thought-provoking and compelling novel, an elderly Roman scholar retells the story of how human beings originated. But in his version, people were at first female only-he portrays a community called the Clefts who give birth to girls in conjunction with the cycles of the moon. Understandably, the Clefts are shocked and confused when the first male is born. What develops is much like an original battle of the sexes; the men are cast out and form their own community, but eventually the curiosity of both groups gets the better of them. Images of the scholar's own life emerge as he attempts to piece together this story from fragments of manuscripts and the oral traditions of both the women and the men of that time. The award-winning author of The Golden Notebookand the "Children of Violence" series, Lessing does not present an idealized view of women; far from being loving and peaceful, they actually treat the men quite cruelly. This multifaceted account of life, love, gender, history, and the power of story is engrossing if not easy reading. Highly recommended for literary collections.
—Alicia Korenman

Library Journal

One of postcolonial fiction's brightest lights makes mythic the battle of the sexes. It's men vs. women. Or, less subtly, "Monsters" vs. "Clefts." Lessing (The Story of General Dann and Mara's Daughter, Griot and the Snow Dog, 2005, etc.), manufacturing a legend out of prose somewhere between grunting and incantation, imagines pre-history. As if commenting on ancient lore, a Roman senator tells of "the Cleft where the red flowers grow," a Shangri-La soon to turn oppressive that's peopled only by moon-worshipping women bearing the name of their land. One day, on this isle of Fish Skin Curers, Seaweed Collectors and Old Shes, a virgin birth produces a Monster, complete with a "tube" below his navel and nipples that "aren't good for anything." As in old Greece, unwanted babies are exposed to the elements on the Cleft, and even while the Clefts insist that "there is no record of any of us doing cruel things-not until the Monsters were born," they leave most of the Monsters out to die or castrate them. Except Maire, who instinctively mates with one of the surviving Monsters grown to adulthood (they're then dubbed "Squirts"). In time, more Cleft-Squirt copulation ensues (they do it fast, Lessing says, like birds). The Squirt offspring are pretty much dunderheads who "did not understand that if they did this, then that would follow," but they're resourceful, making fire and suckling female deer when their Cleft mothers abandon them. After a while, in this anti-Genesis, an alternative Adam and Eve rise up: Horsa and Maronna. Like all Clefts, who "always talked down to the men, chiding and scolding," Maronna rules the roost; Horsa explores. But just as he seems about to venture toward some newwonderland and Clefts and Monsters achieve some kind of acceptance, the Cleft, like Vesuvius, explodes. A dark parable, powerful yet baffling.

Kirkus Reviews