I think this is the right place to say something more about ‘it’. Though of course there is no ‘right’ place or time, since there was no particular moment marking – then or now – ‘its’ beginning. And yet there did come a period when everyone was talking about ‘it’; and we knew we had not been doing this until recently: there was a different ingredient in our lives.
Perhaps I would have done better to have begun this chronicle with an attempt at a full description of ‘it’. But is it possible to write an account of anything at all without ‘it’ – in some shape or another – being the main theme? Perhaps, indeed, ‘it’ is the secret theme of all literature and history, like writing in invisible ink between the lines, which springs up, sharply black, dimming the old print we knew so well, as life, personal or public, unfolds unexpectedly and we see something where we never thought we could – we see ‘it’ as the ground-swell of events, experience . . . Very well then, but what was ‘it’? . . . I am sure that ever since there were men on earth ‘it’ has been talked of precisely in this way in times of crisis, since it is in crisis ‘it’ becomes visible, and our conceit sinks before its force. For ‘it’ is a force, a power, taking the form of earthquake, a visiting comet whose balefulness hangs closer night by night distorting all thought by fear – ‘it’ can be, has been, pestilence, a war, the alteration of climate, a tyranny that twists men’s minds, the savagery of a religion.
‘It’, in short, is the word for helpless ignorance, or of helpless awareness. It is a word for man’s inadequacy?
‘Have you heard anything new about it?’
‘So and so said last night that it . . .’
Worse still when the stage is reached of ‘Have you heard anything new’, when ‘it’ has absorbed everything into itself, and nothing else can be meant when people ask what is moving in our world, what moves our world. It. Only it, a much worse word than ‘they’; for ‘they’ at least are humanity too, can be moved, are helpless, like ourselves.
‘It’, perhaps – on this occasion in history – was above all a consciousness of something ending.
Doris Lessing, The Memoirs of a Survivor.