Admiration

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

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• From Confessions of a Mask (1958)

  My ever-cautious parents had used the plea of my poor health to obtain for me an exception to the rule requiring every student to live in the dormitory for a year or two during his middle-school course. And once again their main reason was nothing more than to keep me from learning "bad things." The number of day students was small. In the final term of our second year a newcomer joined our little group. This was Omi. He had been expelled from the dormitory because of some outrageous behavior. Until then I had paid no particular attention to him, but when his expulsion placed this unmistakable brand of what is called "delinquency" upon him, I suddenly found it difficult to keep my eyes off him. One day a good-natured, fat friend came running up to me, giggling and showing his dimples. By these familiar signs I knew he had come into possession of some secret information. "But do I have something to tell you!" he said. I left the side of the radiator and went out into the corridor with my good-natured friend. We leaned on a window overlooking the wind-swept archery court. That window was our usual spot for telling secrets. "Well, Omi—" my friend began. Then he stopped, blushing as though he was too embarrassed to continue. (Once, in about the fifth year of lower school, when we had all been talking about "that," this boy had flatly contradicted us with a capital remark: "It's all a complete lie—I absolutely know people do no such thing." Another time, upon hearing that a friend's father had palsy, he warned me that palsy was contagious and that I had better not get too near that friend.) "Hey! what gives with Omi?" Though I was still using the polite, feminine forms of speech at home, when at school I had begun speaking crudely like the other boys. "This is the truth. That guy Omi—well, they say he's already had lots of girls, that's what!" It was easy to believe. Omi must have been several years older than the rest of us, having failed to be promoted two or three times. He surpassed us all in physique, and in the contours of his face could be seen signs of some privileged youthfulness excelling ours by far. He had an innate and lofty manner of gratuitous scorn. There was not one single thing that he found undeserving of contempt. For us there was no changing the fact that an honor student was an honor student, a teacher a teacher; that policemen or university students or office workers were precisely policemen, university students, and office workers. In the same way Omi was simply Omi, and it was impossible to escape his contemptuous eyes and scornful laughter. "Really?"

• From Between the World and Me (2015)

  In this blooming consciousness, in this period of intense questioning, I was not alone. Seeds planted in the 1960s, forgotten by so many, sprung up from the ground and bore fruit. Malcolm X, who’d been dead for twenty-five years, exploded out of the small gatherings of his surviving apostles and returned to the world. Hip-hop artists quoted him in lyrics, cut his speeches across the breaks, or flashed his likeness in their videos. This was the early ’90s. I was then approaching the end of my time in my parents’ home and wondering about my life out there. If I could have chosen a flag back then, it would have been embroidered with a portrait of Malcolm X, dressed in a business suit, his tie dangling, one hand parting a window shade, the other holding a rifle. The portrait communicated everything I wanted to be—controlled, intelligent, and beyond the fear. I would buy tapes of Malcolm’s speeches—“Message to the Grassroots,” “The Ballot or the Bullet”—down at Everyone’s Place, a black bookstore on North Avenue, and play them on my Walkman. Here was all the angst I felt before the heroes of February, distilled and quotable. “Don’t give up your life, preserve your life,” he would say. “And if you got to give it up, make it even-steven.” This was not boasting—it was a declaration of equality rooted not in better angels or the intangible spirit but in the sanctity of the black body. You preserved your life because your life, your body, was as good as anyone’s, because your blood was as precious as jewels, and it should never be sold for magic, for spirituals inspired by the unknowable hereafter. You do not give your precious body to the billy clubs of Birmingham sheriffs nor to the insidious gravity of the streets. Black is beautiful—which is to say that the black body is beautiful, that black hair must be guarded against the torture of processing and lye, that black skin must be guarded against bleach, that our noses and mouths must be protected against modern surgery. We are all our beautiful bodies and so must never be prostrate before barbarians, must never submit our original self, our one of one, to defiling and plunder.

• From The Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  Congress. Babu Brajkishore Prasad moved the resolution, expressing sympathy for the people of Champaran, and it was unanimously passed. Rajkumar Shukla was glad, but far from satisfied. He wanted me personally to visit Champaran and witness the miseries of the ryots there. I told him that I would include Champaran in the tour which I had contemplated and give it a day or two. ‘One day will be enough,’ said he, ‘and you will see things with your own eyes.’ From Lucknow I went to Cawnpore Rajkumar Shukla followed me there. ‘Champaran is very near here. Please give a day,’ he insisted.’ Pray excuse me this time. But I promise that I will come,’ said I, further committing myself. I returned to the Ashram. The ubiquitous Rajkumar was there too. ‘Pray fix the day now,’ he said. ‘Well,’ said I, ‘I have to be in Calcutta on such and such a date, come and meet me then, and take me from there.’ I did not know where I was to go, what to do, what things to see. Before I reached Bhupen Babu’s place in Calcutta, Rajkumar Shukla had gone and established himself there. Thus this ignorant, unsophisticated but resolute agriculturist captured me. So early in 1917, we left Calcutta for Champaran, looking just like fellow rustics. I did not even know the train. He took me to it, and we travelled together, reaching Patna in the morning. This was my first visit to Patna. I had no friend or acquaintance with whom I could think of putting up. I had an idea that Rajkumar Shukla, simple agriculturist as he was, must have some influence in Patna. I had come to know him a little more on the journey, and on reaching Patna I had no illusions left concerning him. He was perfectly innocent of every thing. The vakils that he had

• From Macho Sluts (1988)

  Each of his heroes required a different form of worship. Over the years, he had learned how to do tattooing. He had pierced his own tits, perineum, and cock-head to teach himself how to run needles through the body. He had spent weeks constructing an apparatus that could hang a man without killing him, and tested it on himself. He collected, piece by piece, a complete and authentic uniform for an officer of a disbanded and disgraced army that was nevertheless the ultimate fetish of a particularly handsome and worn-out man. The trunk of his car was specially altered so a victim could be kept bound securely there for hours without smothering. A friend of his who owned a ranch kept one stall vacant for his use, equipped with a saddle and bridle tailored for a human beast of burden. He had a trunk full of diving gear, pieces of firemen’s garb, latex garments imported from England and Denmark. He had learned enough kendo to enter a local contest and lose to the appropriate party. Under his bathroom sink, he kept the largest collection of catheters and enema nozzles to be found outside a medical museum. One pursuit had required him to give up coffee and asparagus for months and subsist for three days on nothing but fresh strawberries. Somewhere, in one of his closets, there was even a suitcase containing a makeup kit, a pair of false eyelashes and another pair of equally false tits, a red Spandex minidress, crotchless fishnet hose, a blonde wig, and seven-inch patent leather spike heels. There was nothing, nothing he would not try to learn or concoct or arrange if it would snare a topman, master, sadist, or dominant for a few precious hours. It never occurred to him to wonder what impact he had on the lives of the men he ministered to. He assumed that they continued on exactly as they were before they met him. Why shouldn’t they? Their reputations were not besmirched or tarnished—he never told anyone about his adventures since he knew no one else would understand them. He was available if they wanted him again, so there was no need for them to submit to someone who was less discreet or kind. Why would they feel reduced or humiliated? If he had thought about it, he would have assumed they felt flattered, since he himself felt only gratitude and admiration for them. He was obsessed, and that is not the best frame of mind for tracking one’s impact on the world. He paid no attention at all to his backwash. In other words, he wasn’t watching his ass.

• From Macho Sluts (1988)

  But there were other voices now, reviewers who could tell the difference between a sexual fantasy and an assault. The book got at least some of the credit that it deserved for being thought-provoking, well-written (says the person who revised every story till my eyes bled), unique, and arousing. It was especially wonderful to see reviews that recognized the worth of erotic literature as a form of writing that could challenge the status quo and take readers to a place of liberation as well as help them get horny for a little solo sex or an adventure with a partner (or two or three). But Canada Customs had no sense of humor, no respect for queer sexuality, and above all else, no feminist consciousness. Macho Sluts got confiscated at the border, and became one of the key books defended in a major censorship case. I have no idea how the folks at Little Sister’s Bookstore in Vancouver fought their federal government for so many years. The Supreme Court of Canada eventually agreed that customs officials had indeed overstepped their bounds and were systematically censoring gay literature. They had confiscated issues of The Advocate , gay sex manuals like The Joy of Gay Sex , fiction by Edmund White, John Preston, John Rechy, the books of anti-porn stalwart Andrea Dworkin, and a long list of other gay and lesbian authors. Little Sister’s is still defending queer literature from the bonfire-happy homophobes at the border. Next time you are having trouble buying gifts, consider giving them a donation on behalf of the Lipstick Lesbian or the Club Kid Who Has Everything. So there you are. You’re holding a bit of queer history in your hands. But does it still strike a raw nerve today and make it vibrate until you think you can’t stand it any more, and you just have to come? Why, yes, I think it does. Only you can be the final judge of that, of course, but it’s my hope that the twisted plots and carefully drawn characters in these stories can still take readers on a good, hard ride. It has always been important to me to give my readers stories that flow smoothly, so that they aren’t jolted by inconsistencies or bad grammar.

• From Macho Sluts (1988)

  There were times in our many attempts to import the book that I wish the title had been Submissive Ladies —that would have been a title that would have raised no eyebrows, would have quietly crossed the border, much in the way that Jane Austen’s novels have quietly defined how a young lady should behave. In many ways, Pat Califia’s Macho Sluts is the antidote to Jane Austen; Califia did not simply push the boundaries with this book, she blew up a transnational border, like a burning cigarette in a fireworks warehouse. Strong women in charge of their lives and their sexuality were not something that Canada Customs had much experience with, and it was time that they learned. It is one thing to write an important book in the privacy of your home, hunched over a computer keyboard, just you and the words in front of you. It is entirely another to come out into the light of a judgmental society, eager to condemn all that is confrontational and new. Pat Califia not only talked the talk, Pat walked the walk with the bold and brave defense of the book during our long and important court case. Pioneers who dare to challenge existing codes of conduct often face societal condemnation, and those who truly attempt to change the world in any significant way can expect overwhelming opposition. Pat Califia faced this hostile judgment in a Canadian courtroom and came out the proud victor. Pat Califia will forever remain one of my heroes in our epic fight for the right to choose what we read and view. Now a whole new generation of readers will be able to appreciate the bravery of this important book and author. Please savor and enjoy. Macho Sluts P ATRICK C ALIFIA’S writing and activism have revolutionized the concept of queer sex. He has written over a dozen books, including Coming to Power, Melting Point, No Mercy, and Speaking Sex to Power. His work has been translated into six other languages. Almost ten years ago, Califia transitioned from female to male; he now lives as a bisexual transman in San Francisco. W ENDY C HAPKIS is a Professor of Sociology and Women & Gender Studies at the University of Southern Maine in Portland. She is also the co-author of Dying to Get High: Marijuana as Medicine (New York University Press, 2008).

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Stephen thought that her voice sounded pleased and excited, and in spite of herself she sighed a little. But after all nothing really mattered except that Mary should keep well and happy. She would certainly take her to Valérie Seymour’s — why not? She had probably been very foolish. Selfish too, sacrificing the girl to her cranks — ‘ Darling, of course we'll go,’ she said quickly. ‘ I expect we’ll find it awfully amusing.’ 7 Ture days later, Valérie, having seen Brockett, wrote a short but cordial invitation: “Do come in on Wednesday if you possibly can — I mean both of you, of course. Brockett’s promised to come, and one or two other interesting people. I’m so looking forward to renewing our acquaintance after all this long time, and to meet- ing Miss Llewellyn. But why have you never been to see me? i don’t think that was very friendly of you! However, you can make up for past neglect by coming to my little party on Wednesday. . . .’ Stephen tossed the letter across to Mary. ‘ There you are! ’ * How ripping — but will you go? ’ * Do you want to? ’ ‘ Yes, of course. Only what about your work? ’ ‘ It will keep all right for one afternoon.’ * Are you sure? ’ Stephen smiled. ‘ Yes, I’m quite sure, darling.’ CHAPTER 44 I ALERIE’s rooms were already crowded when Stephen and Mary arrived at her reception, so crowded that at first they could not see their hostess and must stand rather awkwardly near the door — they had not been announced; one never was for some reason, when one went to Valérie Seymour’s. People looked at Stephen curiously; her height, her clothes, the scar on her face, had immediately riveted their attention. ‘Quel type!’ murmured Dupont the sculptor to his neigh- bour, and promptly decided that he wished to model Stephen. “It’s a wonderful head; I adore the strong throat. And the mouth — is it chaste, is it ardent? I wonder. How would one model that intriguing mouth? ’ Then being Dupont, to whom all things were allowed for the sake of his art, he moved a step nearer and stared with embarrassing admiration, combing his greyish beard with his fingers. His neighbour, who was also his latest mistress, a small fair- haired girl of a doll-like beauty, shrugged her shoulders. ‘I am not very pleased with you, Dupont, your taste is becoming pe- culiar, mon ami — and yet you are still sufficiently virile. . . .’

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Martin lived in British Columbia, it seemed, where he owned several farms and a number of orchards. He had gone out there after the death of his mother, for six months, but had stayed on for love of the country. And now he was having a holiday in Eng- land — that was how he had got to know young Roger Antrim, they had met up in London and Roger had asked him to come down for a week, and so here he was — but it felt almost strange to be back again in England. Then he talked of the vastness of that new country that was yet so old; of its snow-capped moun- tains, of its canyons and gorges, of its deep, princely rivers, of its lakes, above all of its mighty forests. And when Martin spoke of those mighty forests, his voice changed, it became almost reveren- tial; for this young man loved trees with a primitive instinct, with a strange and inexplicable devotion. Because he liked Stephen he could talk of his trees, and because she liked him she could listen while he talked, feeling that she too would love his great forests. His face was very young, clean-shaver and bony; he had bony, brown hands with spatulate fingers; for the rest, he was tall with a loosely knit figure, and he slouched a little when he walked, from much riding. But his face had a charming quality about it, especially when he talked of his trees; it glowed, it seemed to be inwardly kindled, and it asked for a real and heart-felt under- standing of the patience and the beauty and the goodness of trees — it was eager for your understanding. Yet in spite of this THE WELL OF LONELINESS IOI touch of romance in his make-up, which he could not keep out of his voice at moments, he spoke simply, as one man will speak to another, very simply, not trying to create an impression. He talked about trees as some men talk of ships, because they love them and the element they stand for. And Stephen, the awkward, the bashful, the tongue-tied, heard herself talking in her turn, quite freely, heard herself asking him endless questions about for- estry, farming and the care of vast orchards; thoughtful questions, unromantic but apt — such as one man will ask of another.

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  The earliest notice of his Gospel we have from Papias of Hierapolis in the first half of the second century. He reports among the primitive traditions which he collected, that "Mark, having become the interpreter of Peter (eJrmhneuth;" Pevtrou genovmeno"¼, wrote down accurately »ajkribw'" e[grayen) whatever he remembered,947 without, however, recording in order (ta;xei) what was either said or done by Christ. For neither did he hear the Lord, nor did he follow Him; but afterwards, as I said, [he followed] Peter, who adapted his instructions to the needs [of his hearers], but not in the way of giving a connected account of the Lord’s discourses.948 So then Mark committed no error in thus writing down such details as he remembered; for he made it his one forethought not to omit or to misrepresent any details that he had heard."949 In what sense was Mark an "interpreter" of Peter? Not as the translator of a written Aramaic Gospel of Peter into the Greek, for of such an Aramaic original there is no trace, and Peter (to judge from his Epistles) wrote better Greek; nor as the translator of his discourses into Latin, for we know not whether he understood that language, and it was scarcely needed even in Rome among Jews and Orientals who spoke Greek;950 nor in the wider sense, as a mere clerk or amanuensis, who wrote down what Peter dictated; but as the literary editor and publisher of the oral Gospel of his spiritual father and teacher. So Mercury was called the interpreter of the gods, because he communicated to mortals the messages of the gods. It is quite probable, however, that Peter sketched down some of the chief events under the first impression, in his vernacular tongue, and that such brief memoirs, if they existed, would naturally be made use of by Mark.951 We learn, then, from Papias that Mark wrote his Gospel from the personal reminiscences of Peter’s discourses, which were adapted to the immediate wants of his hearers; that it was not complete (especially in the didactic part, as compared with Matthew or John), nor strictly chronological. Clement of Alexandria informs us that the people of Rome were so much pleased with the preaching of Peter that they requested Mark, his attendant, to put it down in writing, which Peter neither encouraged nor hindered. Other ancient fathers emphasize the close intimacy of Mark with Peter, and call his Gospel the Gospel of Peter.952 The Gospel.

• From The Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  She had once an occasion to take £ 40 from me, but she insisted on having it as a loan, and repaid the full amount last year. Her courage was equal to her sacrifice. She is one of the few women I have been privileged to come across, with a character as clear as crystal and courage that would shame a warrior. She is a grown up woman now. I do not know her mind quite as well as when she was with me, but my contact with this young lady will ever be for me a sacred recollection. I would therefore be false to truth if I kept back what I know about her. She knew neither night nor day in toiling for the cause. She ventured out on errands in the darknes of the night all by herself, and angrily scouted any suggestion of an escort. Thousands of stalwart Indians looked up to her for guidance. When during the Satyagraha days almost every one of the leaders was in jail, she led the movement single- handed. She had the management of thousands, a tremendous amount of correspondence, and Indian Opinion in her hands, but she never wearied. I could go on without end writing thus about Miss Schlesin, but I shall conclude this chapter with citing Gokhale’s estimate of her. Gokhale knew every one of my co-workers. He was pleased with many of them, and would often give his opinion of them. He gave the first place to Miss Schlesin amongst all the Indian and European co-workers. ‘I have rarely met with the sacrifice, the purity and the fearlessness I have seen in Miss Schlesin,’ said he. ‘Amongst your co- workers, she takes the first place in my estimation.’ 92.

• From The Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  Pandya it was a thing after his heart. He did not like the campaign to end without someone undergoing suffering in the shape of imprisonment for something done consistently with the principles fof Satyagraha. So he volunteered to remove the onion crop from the field, and in this seven or eight friends joined him. It was impossible for the Government to leave them free. The arrest of Sjt. Mohanlal and his companions added to the people’s enthusiasm. When the fear of jail disappears, repression puts heart into the people. Crowds of them besieged the court-house on the day of the hearing. Pandya and his companions were convicted and sentenced to a brief term of imprisonment. I was of opinion that the conviction was wrong, because the act of removing the onion crop could not come under the definition of ‘theft’ in the Penal Code. But no appeal was filed as the policy was to avoid the law courts. A procession escorted the ‘convicts’ to jail, and on that day Sjt. Mohanlal Pandya earned from the people the honoured title of dungli Chor (onion thief) which he enjoys to this day. The conclusion of the Kheda Satyagraha I will leave to the next chapter. 151.

• From The Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  A MONTH WITH GOKHALE -- II Whilst living under Gokhlae’s roof I was far from being a stay-at- home. I had told my Christian friends in South Africa that in India I would meet the Christian Indians and acquint myself with their condition. I had heard of Babu Kalicharan Banerji and held him in high regard. He took a prominent part in the Congress, and I had none of the misgivings about him that I had about the average Christian Indian, who stood aloof from the Congress and isolated himself from Hindus and Musalmans. I told Gokhale that I was thinking of meeting him. He said: ‘What is good of your seeing him? He is a very good man, but I am afraid he will not satisfy you. I know him very well. However, you can certainly meet him if you like?.’ I sought an appointment, which he readly gave me. When I went, I found that his wife was on her death- bed. His house was simple. In the Congress I had seen him in a coat and trusers, but I was glad to find him now wearing a Bengal #dhoti# and shirt. I liked his simple mode of dress, though I myself then wore a Parsi coat and trousers. Without much ado I presented my difficulties to him. He asked: ‘DO you believe in the doctrine of original sin?’ ‘I do,’ said I. ‘Well then, Hinduism offers no absolution therefrom, Christianity does, and added: The wages of sin is death, and the Bible says that the only way of deliverance is surrender unto Jesus.’ I put forward #Bhakti-marga# (the path of devotion) of the #Bhagavadgita#, but to no avail. I thanked him for his goodness. He failed to satisfy me, but I benefited by the interview.

• From Macho Sluts (1988)

  Thank you. You are indispensable and irreplaceable.” Chris had followed Joyous Day down to the Saint Andrew’s cross and was uncoiling her bullwhip. She picked a spot to stand about nine feet from the X-shaped beams and began to take practice shots. The crack of the long whip was as loud as a pistol going off. Joy looked up from arranging her equipment on the cart and shot a fist into the air. “Jah love!” she shouted. “I thought you was an atheist,” Chris shouted back. “I could mebbe bring myself t’believe in your right arm, Chrissie.” The two of them cackled like the hags in Macbeth . Alex put a hand on Tyre’s shoulder. “They all look like pros, madam.” “They are,” she said. Apparently some doubt still lingered. “Yeah, it’s a hot-looking bunch, but how do you know if they’ll follow through?” EZ, absorbed in the tape deck, was still close enough to hear them. She snorted, then smothered her laugh. “Because they got the same test every dominant who works at the Calyx gets. I’ve played with all of them,” Tyre said. “They won’t have any performance problems, believe me.” Take that, you supercilious switch-hitter, she thought. “Well, well. All of them?” “All of the women here tonight. Except Roxanne. Think she’ll follow through?” “Damn straight.” Tyre shrugged. “So don’t sweat the small stuff. Everybody knows it’s really the bottom who runs the scene. EZ, quit dickin’ around with that deck and put on some music. We need something high-energy and mean. Alex, who do you want to bring Roxanne in?” Alex pointed at EZ, who hand just punched in some redneck rock’n’roll, and Joy. “I’ll go along to supervise,” she said, “but I don’t want to say anything or touch her. I want to make absolutely sure she doesn’t know I’m here.” “Better ask Michael to help you, then,” Tyre said. “Don’t take any risk of dropping her. She’s going to be too disorientated by sensory deprivation to walk.” “Aye-aye. Come on, crew. Shanghai time.” Tyre and Kay stolled over to keep Anne-Marie company. They could hear Chris’s bullwhip break the sound barrier, even over the shit-kicking music EZ had put on. Anne-Marie tapped her toe sedately to both rhythms and pumped up the bulb on her Bardex enema apparatus. She smiled at them and slowly released the air, then hung it on something that looked like a steel hat-rack (actually made to hold IV bottles) by the operating table. Then she went over to the wall and took down each cane, examining them minutely for cracks, and took a few practice swishes with each one. She handed one, easily a foot longer than any of the others, to Tyre, who cleaned its tip with an alcohol swap.

• From The Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  ‘We will certainly go to jail, provided you lead us. As kathiawadis, we have the first right on you. Of course we do not mean to detain you now, but you must promise to halt here on your return. You will be delighted to see the work and the spirit of our youths, and you may trust us to respond as soon as you summon us.’ Motilal captivated me. His comrade eulogizing him, said: ‘Our friend is but a tailor. But he is such a master of his profession that he easily earns Rs. 15 a month which is just what he needs working an hour a day, and gives the rest of his time to public work. He leads us all, putting our education to shame. Later I came in close contact with Motilal, and I saw that there was no exaggeration in the eulogy. He made a point of spending some days in the then newly started Ashram every month to teach the children tailoring and to do some of the tailoring of the Ashram himself. He would talk to me every day of Viramgam, and the hardships of the passengers, which had become absolutely unbearable for him. He was cut off in the prime of youth by a sudden illness, and public life at Wadhwan suffered without him. On reaching Rajkot, I reported myself to the Medical officer the next morning. I was not unknown there. The Doctor felt ashamed and was angry with the inspector. This was unnecessary, for the inspector had only done his duty. He did not know me, and even if he had known me, he should done have otherwise. The Medical Officer would not let me go to him again insisted on sending an inspector to me instead. Inspection of third class passangers for sanitary reasons is essential on such occasions. If big men choose to travel third, whatever their position in life, they

• From The Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  and having been all but exterminated, if there was some stray spinner still surviving in some obscure corner, only a member of that sex was likely to find out her whereabouts. In the year 1917 I was taken by my Gujarati friends to preside at the Broach Educational Conference. It was here that I discovered that remarkable lady Gangabehn Majmundar. She was a widow, but her enterprising spirit knew no bounds. Her education, in the accepted sense of the term, was not much. But in courage and commonsense she easily surpassed the general run of our educated women. She had already got rid of the curse of untouchability, and fearlessly moved among and served the suppressed classes. She had means of her own, and her needs were few. She had a well seasoned constitution, and went about everywhere without an escort. She felt quite at home on horseback. I came to know her more intimately at the Godhra Conference. To her I poured out my grief about the charkha, and she lightened my burden by a promise to prosecute an earnest and incessant search for the spinning wheel. 166.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Mithridanes was sore abashed and replied, 'God forbid I should, let alone take and sever from you a thing of such price as your life, but even desire to do so, as but late I did,--your life, whose years far from seeking to lessen, I would willingly add thereto of mine own!' Whereto Nathan straightway rejoined, 'And art thou indeed willing, it being in thy power to do it, to add of thy years unto mine and in so doing, to cause me do for thee that which I never yet did for any man, to wit, take of thy good, I who never yet took aught of others?' 'Ay am I,' answered Mithridanes in haste. 'Then,' said Nathan, 'thou must do as I shall bid thee. Thou shalt take up thine abode, young as thou art, here in my house and bear the name of Nathan, whilst I will betake myself to thy house and let still call myself Mithridanes.' Quoth Mithridanes, 'An I knew how to do as well as you have done and do, I would, without hesitation, take that which you proffer me; but, since meseemeth very certain that my actions would be a diminishment of Nathan's fame and as I purpose not to mar in another that which I know not how to order in myself, I will not take it.' These and many other courteous discourses having passed between them, they returned, at Nathan's instance, to the latter's palace, where he entertained Mithridanes with the utmost honour sundry days, heartening him in his great and noble purpose with all manner of wit and wisdom. Then, Mithridanes desiring to return to his own house with his company, he dismissed him, having throughly given him to know that he might never avail to outdo him in liberality." THE FOURTH STORY [Day the Tenth] MESSER GENTILE DE' CARISENDI, COMING FROM MODONA, TAKETH FORTH OF THE SEPULCHRE A LADY WHOM HE LOVETH AND WHO HATH BEEN BURIED FOR DEAD. THE LADY, RESTORED TO LIFE, BEARETH A MALE CHILD AND MESSER GENTILE RESTORETH HER AND HER SON TO NICCOLUCCIO CACCIANIMICO, HER HUSBAND

• From The Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  TWO PASSIONS Hardly ever have I known anybody to cherish such loyalty as I did to the British Constitution. I can see now that my love of truth was at the root of this loyalty. It has never been possible for me to simulate loyalty or, for that matter, any other virtue. The national Anthem used to be sung at every meeting that I attended in Natal. I was unaware of the defects in British rule, but I thought that it was on the whole acceptable. In those days I believed that British rule was on the whole beneficial to the ruled. The colour prejudice that I saw in South Africa was, I thought, quite contrary to British traditions, and I believed that it was only temporary and local. I therefore vied with Englishmen in loyalty to the throne. With careful perseverance I learnt the tune of the ‘national anthem’ and joined in the singing whenever it was sung. Whenever there was an occasion for the expression of loyalty without fuss or ostentation, I readily took part in it. Never in my life did I exploit this loyalty, never did I seek to gain a selfish end by its means. It was for me more in the nature of an obligation, and I rendered it without expecting a reward. Preparations were going on for the celebration of Queen Victoria’s Diamond Jubilee when I reached India. I was invited to join the committee appointed for the purpose in Rajkot. I accepted the offer, but had a suspicion that the celebrations would be largely a matter of show. I discovered much humbug about them and was considerably pained. I began to ask myself whether I should remain on the committee or not, but ultimately decided to rest content with doing my part of the business.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Meanwhile the servant sent to Pavia did his errand to the lady, who, with no womanly, but with a royal spirit, let call in haste a great number of the friends and servants of Messer Torello and made ready all that behoved unto a magnificent banquet. Moreover, she let bid by torchlight many of the noblest of the townfolk to the banquet and bringing out cloths and silks and furs, caused throughly order that which her husband had sent to bid her do. The day come, Saladin and his companions arose, whereupon Messer Torello took horse with them and sending for his falcons, carried them to a neighbouring ford and there showed them how the latter flew; then, Saladin enquiring for some one who should bring him to Pavia and to the best inn, his host said, 'I will be your guide, for that it behoveth me go thither.' The others, believing this, were content and set out in company with him for the city, which they reached about tierce and thinking to be on their way to the best inn, were carried by Messer Torello to his own house, where a good half-hundred of the most considerable citizens were already come to receive the stranger gentlemen and were straightway about their bridles and stirrups. Saladin and his companions, seeing this, understood but too well what was forward and said, 'Messer Torello, this is not what we asked of you; you have done enough for us this past night, ay, and far more than we are worth; wherefore you might now fitly suffer us fare on our way.' 'Gentlemen,' replied Messer Torello, 'for my yesternight's dealing with you I am more indebted to fortune than to you, which took you on the road at an hour when it behoved you come to my poor house; but of your this morning's visit I shall be beholden to yourselves, and with me all these gentlemen who are about you and to whom an it seem to you courteous to refuse to dine with them, you can do so, if you will.'

• From The Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  taken to be his friends were really nothing of the sort. Poor Rajkumar was more or less as a menial to them. Between such agriculturist clients and their vakils there is a gulf as wide as the Ganges in flood. Rajkumar Shukla took me to Rajendra Babu’s place in Patna. Rajendra Babu had gone to Puri or some other place, I now forget which. There were one or two servants at the bungalow who paid us no attention. I had with me something to eat. I wanted dates which my companion procured for me from the bazaar. There was strict untouchability in Bihar. I might not draw water at the well whilst the servants were using it, lest drops of water from my bucket might pollute them, the servants not knowing to what caste I belonged. Rajkumar directed me to the indoor latrine, the servant promptly directed me to the outdoor one. All this was far from surprising or irritating to me, for I was inured to such things. The servants were doing the duty, which they thought Rajendra Babu would wish them to do. These entertaining experiences enhanced my regard for Rajkumar Shukla, if they also enabled me to know him better. I saw now that Rajkumar Shukla could not guide me, and that I must take the reins in my own hands. 139.

• From Sketch for a Theory of the Emotions (1939)

  He was also a contributor to Combat, a newspaper created by Albert Camus during the German occupation. Later, the French philosopher and resistant Vladimir Jankelevitch criticized Sartre's lack of political commitment during the occupation, interpreting his political writings as an attempt to assuage his guilt. According to Camus, Sartre was a writer who resisted, not a resister who wrote. After the war ended Sartre established Les Temps Modernes, a quarterly literary and political review. He drew on his experience of war for his great trilogy of novels, Les Chemins de la Liberté (The Roads to Freedom), published between 1945 and 1949. His play Les Mains Sales (Dirty Hands) (1948) explored a typical Sartre theme: the dilemma of the politically ‘engaged’ intellectual. He strongly opposed French rule in Algeria as did many intellectuals of the time. His support of the FLN in Algeria made him a domestic target of the paramilitary Organisation de l'armée secrète (OAS) and he escaped two bomb attacks in the early 1960s. He opposed the Vietnam War and, along with Bertrand Russell and others, organized a tribunal intended to expose US war crimes, which became known as the Russell Tribunal, in 1967. The first volume of Critique de la raison dialectique (Critique of Dialectical Reason) appeared in 1960. Sartre argued that Marx's notion of ‘class’ as objective was wrong and he attempted to provide a new philosophical foundation for Marxism. Never a member of the Communist party, Sartre's emphasis on humanism in Marx's work led to a quarrel with Louis Althusser, one of France's radical left-wing intellectuals. However, Sartre visited Cuba in the 1960s where he met with both Fidel Castro and Che Guevara. After Guevara's death, Sartre said he was ‘not only an intellectual but also the most complete human being of our age’. In October 1964, Sartre was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature but he declined it; because in his view the personal commitments of a writer should not be associated with institutions. He was the first Nobel Laureate to voluntarily decline the prize, having previously refused the Légion d'honneur in 1945. He remained committed to political causes until the end of his life. During the strikes and social protests of 1968 he was arrested for civil disobedience. He was swiftly pardoned by President Charles de Gaulle, who said ‘you don't arrest Voltaire’. Sartre's health began to collapse whilst he was composing a huge biography of Gustave Flaubert, which remained unfinished. He became almost completely blind in 1973. Sartre died on 15 April 1980 in Paris from edema of the lung. His funeral attracted an enormous crowd of up to 50,000 mourners, who accompanied his coffin to the Cimetière de Montparnasse in Paris where he is buried. Sebastian Gardner's main interests lie in the history of philosophy, in particular Kant, German idealism and phenomenology.