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 The Decameron (1353)

  Each one of you must many a time have heard tell of King Charles the Old or First, by whose magnanimous emprise, and after by the glorious victory gained by him over King Manfred, the Ghibellines were expelled from Florence and the Guelphs returned thither. In consequence of this a certain gentleman, called Messer Neri degli Uberti, departing the city with all his household and much monies and being minded to take refuge no otherwhere than under the hand of King Charles, betook himself to Castellamare di Stabia.[457] There, belike a crossbowshot removed from the other habitations of the place, among olive-trees and walnuts and chestnuts, wherewith the country aboundeth, he bought him an estate and built thereon a goodly and commodious dwelling-house, with a delightsome garden thereby, amiddleward which, having great plenty of running water, he made, after our country fashion, a goodly and clear fishpond and lightly filled it with good store of fish. Whilst he concerned himself to make his garden goodlier every day, it befell that King Charles repaired to Castellamare, to rest himself awhile in the hot season, and there hearing tell of the beauty of Messer Neri's garden, he desired to behold it. Hearing, moreover, to whom it belonged, he bethought himself that, as the gentleman was of the party adverse to his own, it behoved to deal the more familiarly with him, and accordingly sent to him to say that he purposed to sup with him privily in his garden that evening, he and four companions. This was very agreeable to Messer Neri, and having made magnificent preparation and taken order with his household of that which was to do, he received the king in his fair garden as gladliest he might and knew. The latter, after having viewed and commended all the garden and Messer Neri's house and washed, seated himself at one of the tables, which were set beside the fishpond, and seating Count Guy de Montfort, who was of his company, on one side of him and Messer Neri on the other, commanded other three, who were come thither with them, to serve according to the order appointed of his host. Thereupon there came dainty meats and there were wines of the best and costliest and the ordinance was exceeding goodly and praiseworthy, without noise or annoy whatsoever, the which the king much commended. [Footnote 457: A town on the Bay of Naples, near the ruins of Pompeii.]

• 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 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 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)

  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 Macho Sluts (1988)

  These carefully tailored black skins had cost him several times more than some men pay for an entire wardrobe of tanned cowhide. He wore a very tight, short-sleeved, black-leather shirt that laced up the front. This supple, buttery-soft garment clung to him, moved with him as if it were his by birth. He was fair-skinned, but very hirsute, so the black fur on his barrel chest sprang up around the laces, and the thick, curly hair on his biceps and forearms made it hard to tell where the sleeves ended and his bare arm began. He wore pants (not chaps) that fit snug across the ass, but were not tight enough in the crotch to mimic a hard-on if he was not really erect. His belt was a plain strap of leather, innocent of studs, well oiled and as flexible as a whore’s tongue, with a massive silver (not chrome, not aluminum) buckle. No keys hung from his belt. He did not wear a cock ring or a wrist watch. He had no epaulets to hang a chain from since he did not own a leather jacket. A cute clone in Adidas and a Daddy’s Boy T-shirt who saw him leaving the bar one night asked, trying to pick him up, “Did you forget your jacket?” “No. I don’t have a jacket.” Daddy’s Boy thought, ‘Thank God, he doesn’t take all this leather drag seriously, he’s not going to get me home and do something ungodly,’ and decided to cruise in earnest. “You should. You’d look hot in one.” The spoiler gave his admirer a puzzled frown. “But I don’t own a motorcycle,” he explained. Men in full leather are usually conspicuous. But the spoiler’s appearance was so neat, his lines so clean, his bearing so modest that he often passed through crowds of the bourgeoisie without changing the topic of their conversation. In the self-consciously masculine bars and rotting piers he frequented, other men relied on flashy, cheap metal to signal their presence in the darkness, or a heavy tread that would make their keys and other accoutrements jangle. He, on the other hand, was rarely noticed unless he chose to be. Nearly every leatherman in the city had been elbow to elbow with him in some club or alley, but few recognized him on sight. Of the elite handful who acknowledged him with a bare nod, the kind of minimal gesture that was harder to get from them than a knighthood, one man wore only cowboy fringes, conchos, and suede; one man wore no leather at all; and one was not a man. But each of these folks have legends of their own. Only his boots glittered, and that was a mirror-bright shine, the kind that takes months of work to complete. Even a USMC drill instructor can’t force someone to get that kind of sheen on a pair of boots. It takes constant caressing.

• From Macho Sluts (1988)

  It would be daunting in any situation to be asked to write something about Patrick Califia’s work. Califia is one of the most important writers on sexual politics of my generation. Over the past thirty years, I have read and re-read his essays, taught a number of them in college seminars, and referenced them in my own writing. Califia has had a profound effect on my identity, too, on what it means to me to be queer and on how I think of myself as a woman (even as he transitioned out of that shared identity). Califia is also an iconic top who knows exactly how to take down those foolish enough to talk back. But there was an even more basic challenge for me in writing this essay. Despite my constant engagement with his nonfiction work, when I dug out my old copy of Macho Sluts , I was surprised to realize that I hadn’t picked it up in years. As I began re-reading it, I remembered why: Califia’s fiction makes me uncomfortable. It took a couple of stories for me to remember that the discomfort is intentional. In a 1979 essay, “The Secret Side of Lesbian Sexuality,” Califia wrote: “If someone wants to know about my sexuality, she can deal with me on my own terms. I don’t particularly care to make it easy. S/M is scary. That’s at least half its significance … S/M is a deliberate, premeditated, erotic blasphemy. It is a form of sexual extremism and sexual dissent.” 1 In the 1980s, when I first read that essay and was introduced to lesbian S/M, Califia’s provocation was nothing less than electrifying. Like many feminists and queer nationals of the time, I was unwilling to see women’s liberation and gay liberation reduced to a polite equal rights campaign—especially if equality was modeled on the lives of those who were straight, male, or conventionally gendered. Feminism and queer politics were compelling to me precisely because they were dangerous, or at least could be. In my twenties and early thirties, I read Califia in order to be confronted as well as aroused, and never came away disappointed. Even—or perhaps especially—at the height of the AIDS epidemic, and while deeply engaged in struggles against sexual violence in women’s lives, I knew it wasn’t simply sex but, in the words of the ACT UP slogan, silence that equaled death. As fellow porn writer and essayist Carol Queen observed, Macho Sluts “blew a hole in the dam of female erotic silence.”

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Bruno had so great a mind to laugh that he was like to burst; however he contained himself and the physician, having made an end of his song, said, 'How deemedst thou thereof?' 'Certes,' answered Bruno, 'there's no Jew's harp but would lose with you, so archigothically do you caterwarble it.' Quoth Master Simone, 'I tell thee thou wouldst never have believed it, hadst thou not heard me.' 'Certes,' replied Bruno, 'you say sooth!' and the physician went on, 'I know store of others; but let that be for the present. Such as thou seest me, my father was a gentleman, albeit he abode in the country, and I myself come by my mother of the Vallecchio family. Moreover, as thou mayst have seen, I have the finest books and gowns of any physician in Florence. Cock's faith, I have a gown that stood me, all reckoned, in nigh upon an hundred pounds of doits, more than half a score years ago; wherefore I pray thee as most I may, to bring me to be of your company, and by Cock's faith, an thou do it, thou mayst be as ill as thou wilt, for I will never take a farthing of thee for my services.' Bruno, hearing this and the physician seeming to him a greater numskull than ever, said, 'Doctor, hold the light a thought more this way and take patience till I have made these rats their tails, and after I will answer you.' The tails being finished, Bruno made believe that the physician's request was exceeding irksome to him and said, 'Doctor mine, these be great things you would do for me and I acknowledge it; nevertheless, that which you ask of me, little as it may be for the greatness of your brain, is yet to me a very grave matter, nor know I any one in the world for whom, it being in my power, I would do it, an I did it not for you, both because I love you as it behoveth and on account of your words, which are seasoned with so much wit that they would draw the straps out of a pair of boots, much more me from my purpose; for the more I consort with you, the wiser you appear to me. And I may tell you this, to boot, that, though I had none other reason, yet do I wish you well, for that I see you enamoured of so fair a creature as is she of whom you speak. But this much I will say to you; I have no such power in this matter as you suppose and cannot therefore do for you that which were behoving; however, an you will promise me, upon your solemn and surbated[403] faith, to keep it me secret, I will tell you the means you must use and meseemeth certain that, with such fine books and other gear as you tell me you have, you will gain your end.'

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

  Narmadashanker’s book Dharma Vichar. Its preface proved very helpful. I had heard about the Bohemian way in which the poet had lived, and a description in the preface of the revolution effected in his life by his religious studies captivated me. I came to like the book, and read it from cover to cover with attention. I read with interest Max Muller’s book, India What Can It Teach Us? and the translation of the Upanishads published by the Theosophical Society. All this enhanced my regard for Hinduism, and its beauties began other religions. I read Washington Irving’s Life of Mahomet and His Successors and Carlyle’s panegyric on the prophet. These books raised Muhammad in my estimation. I also read a book called The Sayings of Zarathustra. Thus I gained more knowledge of the different religions. The study stimulated my self- introspection and fostered in me the habit of putting into practice whatever appealed to me in my studies. Thus I began some of the Yogic practices, as well as I could understand them from a reading of the Hindu books. But I could not get on very far, and decided to follow them with the help of some expert when I returned to India. The desire has never been fulfilled. I made too an intensive study of Tolstoy’s books. The Gospels in Brief, What to Do? and other books made a deep impression on me. I began to realize more and more the infinite possibilities of universal love. About the same time I came in contact with another Christian family. At their suggestion I attended the Wesleyan church every Sunday. For these days I also had their standing invitation to dinner. The church did not make a favourable impression on me. The sermons seemed to be uninspiring. The congregation did not strike me as being particularly religious. They were not an assembly of devout souls; they appeared rather to be worldly-minded people, going to church for recreation and in conformity to custom. Here, at times, I would involuntarily doze. I was ashamed, but some of my neighbours, who were in no better case,

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Pampinea having left speaking and all having commended King Pedro, the Ghibelline lady more than the rest, Fiammetta, by the king's commandment, began thus, "Illustrious ladies, who is there knoweth not that kings, when they will, can do everything great and that it is, to boot, especially required of them that they be magnificent? Whoso, then, having the power, doth that which pertaineth unto him, doth well; but folk should not so much marvel thereat nor exalt him to such a height with supreme praise as it would behove them do with another, of whom, for lack of means, less were required. Wherefore, if you with such words extol the actions of kings and they seem to you fair, I doubt not anywise but those of our peers, whenas they are like unto or greater than those of kings, will please you yet more and be yet highlier commended of you, and I purpose accordingly to recount to you, in a story, the praiseworthy and magnanimous dealings of two citizens and friends with each other. You must know, then, that at the time when Octavianus Cæsar (not yet styled Augustus) ruled the Roman empire in the office called Triumvirate, there was in Rome a gentleman called Publius Quintius Fulvus,[461] who, having a son of marvellous understanding, by name Titus Quintius Fulvus, sent him to Athens to study philosophy and commended him as most he might to a nobleman there called Chremes, his very old friend, by whom Titus was lodged in his own house, in company of a son of his called Gisippus, and set to study with the latter, under the governance of a philosopher named Aristippus. The two young men, coming to consort together, found each other's usances so conformable that there was born thereof a brotherhood between them and a friendship so great that it was never sundered by other accident than death, and neither of them knew weal nor peace save in so much as they were together. Entering upon their studies and being each alike endowed with the highest understanding, they ascended with equal step and marvellous commendation to the glorious altitudes of philosophy; and in this way of life they continued good three years, to the exceeding contentment of Chremes, who in a manner looked upon the one as no more his son than the other. At the end of this time it befell, even as it befalleth of all things, that Chremes, now an old man, departed this life, whereof the two young men suffered a like sorrow, as for a common father, nor could his friends and kinsfolk discern which of the twain was the more in need of consolation for that which had betided them. [Footnote 461: Sic, _Publio Quinzio Fulvo_; but _quære_ should it not rather be _Publio Quinto Fulvio_, _i.e._ Publius Quintus Fulvius, a form of the name which seems more in accordance with the genius of the Latin language?]

• From Amplified Holy Bible (2015)

  7 He is the LORD our God; His judgments are in all the earth. 8 He has remembered His covenant forever, The word which He commanded and established to a a thousand generations, 9 The covenant which He made with Abraham, And His sworn oath to Isaac, [Luke 1:72 , 73 ] 10 Which He confirmed to Jacob as a statute, To Israel as an everlasting covenant, 11 Saying, “To you I will give the land of Canaan As the measured portion of your inheritance.” 12 When there were only a few men in number, Very few [in fact], and strangers in it; 13 And they wandered from one nation to another, From one kingdom to another people, 14 He allowed no man to oppress them; He rebuked kings for their sakes, saying, [Gen 12:17 ; 20:3–7 ] 15 “Do not touch My anointed ones, And do My prophets no harm.” [1 Chr 16:8–22 ] 16 And He called for a famine upon the land [of Egypt]; He b cut off every source of bread. [Gen 41:54 ] 17 He sent a man before them, Joseph, who was sold as a slave. [Gen 45:5 ; 50:20 , 21 ] 18 His feet they hurt with shackles; c He was put in chains of iron, 19 Until the time that his word [of prophecy regarding his brothers] came true, The word of the LORD tested and refined him. 20 The king sent and released him, The ruler of the peoples [of Egypt], and set him free. 21 He made Joseph lord of his house And ruler of all his possessions, [Gen 41:40 ] 22 To imprison his princes at his will, That he might teach his elders wisdom. 23 Israel also came into Egypt; Thus Jacob sojourned in the land of Ham. [Gen 46:6 ] 24 There the LORD greatly increased [the number of] His people, And made them more powerful than their enemies. 25 He turned the heart [of the Egyptians] to hate His people, To deal craftily with His servants. 26 He sent Moses His servant, And Aaron, whom He had chosen. 27 They exhibited His wondrous signs among them, Great miracles in the land of Ham (Egypt). 28 He sent [thick, oppressive] darkness and made the land dark; And Moses and Aaron did not rebel against His words. [Ex 10:22 ; Ps 99:7 ] 29 He turned Egypt’s waters into blood And caused their fish to die. [Ex 7:20 , 21 ] 30 Their land swarmed with frogs, Even in the chambers of their kings. [Ex 8:6 ] 31 He spoke, and there came swarms of flies And gnats in all their territory. [Ex 8:17 , 24 ] 32 He gave them hail for rain, With flaming fire in their land. [Ex 9:23 , 25 ] 33 He struck their vines also and their fig trees, And shattered the [ice-laden] trees of their territory.

• From The Incendiaries (2018)

  Uchida. Wasn’t it Liszt, what she’d played? I was trying to establish bona fides. Once, while hiking with my parents, I’d watched a starling flock in motion, the confusion of birds mobbing about like nets full of fish until they’d lifted, all at once, shape-shifting into a braided coil that flung, agile, whip-tight, into the horizon. Pests, my father said—practical, as usual. But I’d thought it an astonishing sight, God’s design made visible, and that was what Phoebe’s playing felt like: the flight of notes rising into shape, a large purpose made plain. You should be onstage, I said. If I had a gift like that, I’d— You’d live for it, she said. You, Will Kendall, would be a celebrated pianist, a high priest of music. I don’t know why you’re laughing. No, it’s, I tried. I wanted to be a pianist. I’m not sure that’s what it is, a gift. By the time I quit, I realized I’d rather have no talent than just enough to know how much I lacked. I played tonight because he insisted. That’s all. He was telling me about his time in the gulag, and I— “He” being John, I started saying, my voice overlapping hers. I couldn’t turn him down— The gulag? Oh , she said. He was in a gulag. Oh, Will. – In the spring, two years ago— (so Phoebe explained, turned toward me, a hand hot on my thigh as I sped through emptied Noxhurst streets, past the stoplights staining the night) —John Leal had gone to live in Yanji, a Chinese city next to North Korea. He worked with an activist group, with Americans who helped North Koreans in hiding get out of China, into Seoul. It was a long, roundabout trip that required walking through the Laotian jungle, so hazardous they relied on opium mules as guides. Then, one night, he was seized by North Korean spies who took him across the border, throwing him into a gulag. He still couldn’t talk much about what he witnessed. Lives thrown out like trash, he said. A five-year-old child hanged for stealing a little rice. Gang rapes. Everyone was starving. Deprived of rations, a man had eaten the shit-soiled rags used to wipe latrines. One corpse was found stashed in ice, his missing parts marked with human teeth. He watched prison guards kicking a pregnant girl in the stomach. She curled around the swollen belly, trying to protect it. They left the girl bleeding on the ground. People turned aside, afraid. John Leal, too. But then, he noticed an old man helping the girl up, and he was ashamed. In secret, John Leal nursed the girl, Mina. He applied the primitive first-aid training he’d learned from his activist group. She had lived in hiding in China until hostile neighbors alerted the police.

• From The Incendiaries (2018)

  He rifled through it, still talking. I’d held that bag for Phoebe; I knew the feel of its plush, living calfskin. I thought of my mother’s handbag, the box-shaped satchel so private I’d seen its full contents just once in my life, while she was being held in the hospital. I had to sign for the possessions, initialing each item. Hand-sanitizing gel. Labeled pills. Fish oil, aspirin. Lipstick. Jojoba lotion. Rape whistle. I hadn’t admitted to what I couldn’t help seeing: she’d have hated the intrusion, but Phoebe, unperturbed, kept gazing at his face. He dipped his fingers into the bag’s opal slit. The bright satin lining showed. I’d have liked to stop him, but she let it happen. The bag might as well have been his. Ill at ease, I left to find a bathroom. I returned to find everyone standing while Philip rolled in an upright piano. He pushed it against the wall, lid open. Ian carried in a cushioned bench, and Phoebe walked toward the instrument. I asked Jo what was going on. She explained that Ian usually played the piano, but he’d injured his thumb. Phoebe had agreed to fill in. She—, I said, but I stopped. Phoebe sat at the bench. She twisted a knob, adjusting its height. Not long ago, we’d been walking past the grand piano in Wyeth Hall. It gleamed with disuse, and I said I’d never seen anyone touch it. Such a waste, I said. It’s not a good piano, though, she said. I asked if she played. Oh, she said. No. The first notes tolled. Phoebe’s hands moved, pressing out slow chords, but she sat up, torso rigid, as if she had nothing to do with the music. Fingers rippled, gaining speed. The solo line of Phoebe’s right hand jumped high. She came to life. Holding the note, she flexed toward the piano. She turned her head, listening. It echoed, and I could imagine the walls of this house falling down, Noxhurst flattened, the rest of the world blown to nothing until it was just Phoebe, still holding this single, light note. She swept a hand down across the keys, and she kept playing. – When the front door clicked shut behind us, Phoebe asked if I minded driving. I’m full of wine, she said, loud, through high wind. She pulled hair strands out of her mouth. Did you drink as much as I did? No, of course you didn’t. You exercised self-control. I used to know how to do such a thing, but I’ve lost the trick. I could call a taxi. I’ll drive, I said. Inside the car, its abrupt hush, I could still feel the last piano notes thrum, radiant: a faint light, haloing the quiet. I switched on the ignition. I hadn’t studied an instrument. For years, though, while eluding the devil’s influence, I’d listened to classical music. I owned piano recordings I loved. Lupu, for instance. Gould.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  The adventures of Rinaldo d'Asti were hearkened with admiration and his devoutness commended by the ladies, who returned thanks to God and St. Julian for that they had succoured him in his utmost need. Nor yet (though this was said half aside) was the lady reputed foolish, who had known how to take the good God had sent her in her own house. But, whilst they discoursed, laughing in their sleeves, of the pleasant night she had had, Pampinea, seeing herself beside Filostrato and deeming, as indeed it befell, that the next turn would rest with her, began to collect her thoughts and take counsel with herself what she should say; after which, having received the queen's commandment, she proceeded to speak thus, no less resolutely than blithely, "Noble ladies, the more it is discoursed of the doings of Fortune, the more, to whoso is fain to consider her dealings aright, remaineth to be said thereof; and at this none should marvel, an he consider advisedly that all the things, which we foolishly style ours, are in her hands and are consequently, according to her hidden ordinance, transmuted by her without cease from one to another and back again, without any method known unto us. Wherefore, albeit this truth is conclusively demonstrated in everything and all day long and hath already been shown forth in divers of the foregoing stories, nevertheless, since it is our queen's pleasure that we discourse upon this theme, I will, not belike without profit for the listeners, add to the stories aforesaid one of my own, which methinketh should please. There was once in our city a gentleman, by name Messer Tedaldo, who, as some will have it, was of the Lamberti family, albeit others avouch that he was of the Agolanti, arguing more, belike, from the craft after followed by his sons,[88] which was like unto that which the Agolanti have ever practised and yet practise, than from aught else. But, leaving be of which of these two houses he was, I say that he was, in his time, a very rich gentleman and had three sons, whereof the eldest was named Lamberto, the second Tedaldo and the third Agolante, all handsome and sprightly youths, the eldest of whom had not reached his eighteenth year when it befell that the aforesaid Messer Tedaldo died very rich and left all his possessions, both moveable and immoveable, to them, as his legitimate heirs. The young men, seeing themselves left very rich both in lands and monies, began to spend without check or reserve or other governance than that of their own pleasure, keeping a vast household and many and goodly horses and dogs and hawks, still holding open house and giving largesse and making tilts and tournaments and doing not only that which pertaineth unto men of condition, but all, to boot, that it occurred to their youthful appetite to will.