The Book I Almost Quit: A Review of “The Grass Is Singing”

The Book I Almost Quit

I’ll be honest—I didn’t expect The Grass Is Singing to get under my skin the way it did. I picked it up out of curiosity after learning it was Doris Lessing’s first novel, and because, well, Nobel Prize winners don’t usually disappoint. But I put it down pretty quickly—I just didn’t vibe with the heavy, anxious atmosphere at first. It felt suffocating, and I wasn’t in the headspace for something that bleak.

What brought me back was her short story collection, The Grandmothers—that hit me hard. It made me realize just how deft she is at drawing readers into stories that, frankly, should feel too outrageous to believe. That same power is on full display in The Grass Is Singing.

This novel digs deep into heavy stuff—colonialism, power, race, gender—and it does so with an eerie clarity. It’s one of those books that opens up more each time you read it.

A Story That Feels Too Real

Lessing’s talent is undeniable. The Grass Is Singing may be fiction, but it reads with the weight of truth. Mary’s unraveling is written with such nuance that you almost forget you’re reading a novel.

Even the unsettling relationship between Mary and the servant doesn’t feel forced. Somehow, Lessing makes the unthinkable seem inevitable. She navigates a fraught, taboo topic with uncanny ease.

Most of the characters are grounded in reality—complex, flawed, real. The only outlier is Moses. While everyone else feels solid, Moses remains elusive, like a presence that’s there but not fully seen.

A Tragic Tale

Mary and Dick’s story is just plain bleak. A barren marriage, constant struggle, searing heat, isolation—everything conspires to push them toward the edge. It’s like watching a slow-motion collapse you can’t look away from.

The Shifting Dynamics of Power

As Mary’s fear of Moses grows, so does a strange reversal of roles. To Mary, Moses morphs into something more than just a laborer—something she can’t quite explain.

But this transformation exists only in Mary’s mind. To others, like Charlie or Tony, Moses is just another black worker. Ordinary. Unseen.

The Unwanted Dark Side of Humanity

This book lays humanity bare—its ugliness, its pettiness, the stuff we try to ignore. Lessing doesn’t flinch. Greed, cruelty, superiority complexes—it’s all here. And as Mary moves deeper into the wilderness, stripped of social niceties, her true nature comes out.

Human Value Defined by Society

Society’s rules decide worth here. Mary, not marrying early, feels like an outsider. The gossip pushes her into a rushed marriage. Meanwhile, Black people are denied humanity entirely. Mary’s shame over being poor drives her further into isolation.

But there’s a shift. Alone with Moses, she begins to see him—not as “the other,” but as a person. Their bond is messy and complicated, but that sliver of recognition matters. For a moment, it cracks the wall of prejudice.

An Unforgettable Story

Even though you know how it ends from the start, the story keeps you on edge. The tension between Mary and Moses grows so thick, it’s hard to breathe.

That said, the final scene—Mary’s death—lands a bit flat. The suspense fizzles. The ending just sort of… happens.

It’s a tough read. No sugarcoating. None of the characters are particularly likable. There are even moments where it drags a bit.

But Lessing’s insight into what makes us human—raw, flawed, afraid—pulls you back in. It forces you to reckon with things we’d rather not face.

A Personal Reflection

I think what struck me most is how The Grass Is Singing doesn’t try to redeem anyone. There are no heroes here. Just people—confused, angry, lonely, complicit. The land itself becomes a kind of antagonist: relentless, hot, dry, indifferent. It slowly strips everyone down to their barest selves.

Mary as a character is deeply flawed, and often unlikeable. But she’s human. There were moments I pitied her, others when I cringed at her ignorance, her cruelty, her desperation to maintain some sense of control. The way she both fears and fixates on Moses, the servant, is disturbing, but also complicated—there’s a power dynamic at play that flips and twists in ways I didn’t see coming.

What I found most chilling wasn’t the murder—it was the emotional detachment. She lays things bare with an eerie calm, and somehow, that makes it even more powerful.

This isn’t an easy read, emotionally speaking. It doesn’t offer comfort or closure. But it’s sharp, insightful, and deeply uncomfortable in all the ways that matter. Lessing confronts the ugly truths about race, colonialism, and human fragility without flinching.

Would I recommend it? Yes—but only if you’re ready to sit with some unsettling questions. The Grass Is Singing isn’t the kind of book you devour and forget. It lingers. It makes you think.

Diving Into Doris Lessing: 3 Must-Reads That Show Her Range

Doris Lessing isn’t the kind of writer you read casually. Her books don’t exactly go down easy with a cup of tea. They challenge, provoke, sometimes even frustrate—but they always, always leave a mark. If you’ve only read The Grass Is Singing and you’re wondering where to go next, here are three other Lessing works that show just how wide her range really is.

1. The Golden Notebook (1962)

This one’s a beast—in length, in ambition, in what it tries to do. It’s messy, introspective, brilliant, sometimes maddening. But if you’ve ever felt split between roles or ideas or identities, it’ll hit something deep.

2. The Fifth Child (1988)

This is Lessing at her most chilling. The story starts deceptively calm—an idyllic couple, a big old house, lots of children, everything lovely and proper. Then comes Ben, the fifth child, and nothing is ever the same again.

Is it a horror story? A parable? A metaphor for something we’re afraid to name? Probably all of the above. Lessing never really tells you how to feel about Ben, and that’s what makes it so unsettling. This book creeps up on you and lingers in that weird part of your brain where questions don’t have clean answers.

Short, sharp, and surprisingly horrifying.

3. The Memoirs of a Survivor (1974)

This one’s hard to explain, and that’s kind of the point. It’s post-apocalyptic but quiet—no zombies, no explosions, just a city falling apart while a woman and a teenage girl try to make sense of it all. There are strange walls, visions, time folds—it’s surreal, almost dreamlike.

But underneath the sci-fi haze is a story about survival, loss, and transformation. Lessing doesn’t hand you the meaning—you sort of have to live in the uncertainty. And somehow, that makes it feel truer.