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 Case for God (2009)

  Euripides wanted a more transcendent god: “O you who give the earth support and me by it supported,” prays Queen Hecuba in his Trojan Women, “whoever you are, power beyond our knowledge, Zeus, be you stern law of nature or intelligence in man, to you I make my prayers; for you direct in the way of justice all mortal affairs, moving with noiseless tread.”22 Euripides seems to have concluded that “the nous of each one of us is a god.”23 The philosophers of Athens were about to arrive at the same conclusion. In the 420s, during the darkest phase of the Peloponnesian War, a new philosopher started to attract a devoted circle of disciples in Athens. The son of a stonecutter and a midwife, an unprepossessing man with protruding lips, a flat, snubbed nose, and a paunch, Socrates (c. 469–399) cast a spell over a group of young men from some of the noblest families in the city. But he would talk to anybody at all, rich or poor. Indeed, he needed conversation to achieve his mission. Socrates was intent above all on dismantling received ideas and exploring the true meaning of virtue. But he was asking the right questions at the wrong time. During this crisis, people wanted certainty rather than stringent criticism, and in 399 Socrates was condemned to death for corrupting the young, refusing to honor the gods of the polis, and introducing new gods. He denied the charges, insisting that he was no atheist like Anaxagoras. How could teaching about goodness be corrupting? He could have escaped and was probably expected to do so. But even though the sentence was unjust, he preferred to obey the laws of his beloved Athens to the end: he would die a witness (martys) to the untruth currently in the ascendant. Socrates did not commit any of his teachings to writing, so we have to rely on the dialogues composed by his pupil Plato (c. 427–347) that claim to record these conversations. Socrates himself had a poor opinion of written discourse. People who read a lot imagined that they knew a great deal, but because they had not inscribed what they had read indelibly on their minds, they knew nothing at all.24 Written words were like figures in a painting. They seemed alive, but if you questioned them they remained “solemnly silent.” Without the spirited interchange of a human encounter, the knowledge imparted by a written text tended to become static: it “continues to signify just that very same thing forever.”25 Socrates did not approve of fixed, dogmatically held opinions. When philosophia was written down, it was easily misunderstood, because the author had not been able to tailor his discourse to the needs of a particular group. But a living dialogue could transform a person who took part in it, making him “as happy as any human being can be.”26

• From Summer Sisters (1998)

  Dorset SHE PRAYS FOR Grandmother’s death. Get it over with while they’re all together so Lamb can take care of the details. She doesn’t wish her pain or suffering. Just closure. So she can take control of her own life. Why does she have to die for you to grow up and take control of your own life? her shrink wants to know. You tell me, Dr. Freud. So far he hasn’t. WHEN DORSET ASKED for a volunteer to help her run errands, Vix jumped. Last stop on the list was John’s Fish Market, to pick up the poached salmon Abby had ordered for lunch. The second they walked into the fish market Vix stopped dead, because who should be working behind the counter wearing a long white apron but the National Treasure himself. Wouldn’t Caitlin be sorry she hadn’t come! “Well, well ...” he said when he finally noticed her. “Look what the cat dragged in.” Vix was flattered he remembered her, although her loyalties lay with Bru. Still, the heat from his smile drifted across the counter and made her fidget. She ran her hand over the lemons sitting in a basket while Dorset asked if Abby’s order was ready. Von disappeared into the back and came out carrying the salmon arranged on a platter, decorated with flowers. He presented it with a flourish, singing, “Ta-da ... ” “Flowers ...” Dorset said. “How pretty.” “Yeah ... and they’re edible,” he said, eyeing Dorset up and down even though she had to be old enough to be his mother. “I never knew you

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  She tracked them down. She sought their dens and lairs. She explored the mountains all night and, when she was tired, she slept beneath a bush. She could wrestle any young man to the ground, however strong he was. Nothing could withstand her force. It is needless to say that she was still a virgin. She would lie beneath no man. But her friends eventually persuaded her to marry. She betrothed herself to a prince of that country, Odenathus by name, although she made him wait a long time for the ceremony. You should realize, too, that he was as fanciful and as wayward as she was. Nevertheless they were happy. They lived in married bliss. Except for one thing. She insisted that he could have intercourse with her only once. She wanted to have a child. That was all she wished for. If she discovered that she was not pregnant after the first time, Odenathus was allowed to do it again. Just the once, of course. If she was with child after that, then her husband was not permitted to touch her for forty weeks. Then he would be allowed another go. It did not matter if he complained, or wept, he got nothing more from her. She used to tell him that sex for its own sake was a sin. It was lechery, and a reproach to all women. She bore two sons, whom she brought up to be virtuous as well as learned. But let me tell you the story. So here we have Cenobia before us, esteemed, wise, generous without being profligate; she was indefatigable in war, and modest in peace. There was no one like her in the wide world. Her way of life was affluent beyond measure. She was rich in treasures. She was dressed in the finest robes of gold and pearl. She still loved the hunt, but she also strove to learn as many languages as she could. She studied books, earnestly trying to discover the most virtuous form of life. To cut a long story short, she and her noble husband were so expert in arms that they conquered many kingdoms in the East and occupied many famous cities in lands as far away as Turkey and Egypt. No enemy could escape them, at least while Odenathus lived. You may read all about their battles against Shapur, king of Persia, and against other monarchs. You can learn about their victories - and of their defeats. Petrarch, my great master, has told the story of Cenobia’s downfall in abundant detail. He has described how she was captured and taken. It had all been going so well. After the death of her husband her strength and courage seemed to be redoubled. She fought so fiercely against her enemies that there was not a king or prince in that region who could withstand her. So they made treaties with her, and exchanged gifts with her.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  ‘Great job. You have done very well, Squire,’ the Franklin said to him. ‘You have spoken nobly. I can only praise your wit and invention. Considering how young you are, you really got into the spirit of the story. I loved the falcon! In my judgement there is no one among us here who is your equal in eloquence. I hope you live a long life and continue to exercise your skill in words. What an orator you are. I have a son myself, about your age. I wish that he had half of your discretion. I would give twenty pounds of land to the person who could instil some common sense into him. What’s the point of property, or possessions, if you have no good qualities in yourself? I have remonstrated with him time and time again. I have rebuked him for following the easy path to vice. He wants to play at dice all day, losing his money in the process. He would sooner gossip with a common serving-boy than converse with a gentleman, from whom he might learn some manners.’ ‘Enough of your manners,’ called out our Host. ‘You have a task to perform. You know well enough, sir Franklin, that each of the pilgrims must tell a tale or two on our journey. That was the solemn oath.’ ‘I know that, sir,’ replied the Franklin. ‘But am I not allowed to address a word or two to this worthy young man?’ ‘Just get on with your story.’ ‘Gladly. I will obey you to the letter, dear Host. Listen and I will tell you all. I will not go against your wishes. I will speak as far as my poor wit allows me. I pray to God that you enjoy my tale. If it pleases you, I will be rewarded.’ The Franklin’s Prologue The Prologe of the Frankeleyns Tale The noble Bretons of ancient times sang lays about heroes and adventures; they rhymed their words in the original Breton tongue, and accompanied them with the harp or other instrument. Sometimes they wrote them down. I have memorized one of them, in fact, and will now recite it to the best of my ability. But, sirs and dames, I am an unlearned man. You will have to excuse my unpolished speech. I was never taught the rules of rhetoric, that’s for sure. Whatever I say will have to be plain and simple. I never slept on Mount Parnassus, or studied under Cicero. I know nothing about flourishes or styles. The only colours I know are those of the flowers in the field, or those used by the dyer. I know nothing about chiasmus or oxymoron. Those terms leave me cold. But here goes. This is my story. [image file=images/ackr_9781101155639_oeb_009_r1.jpg] The Franklin’s Tale Here bigynneth the Frankeleyns Tale.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  What else would you expect? Even when she lived in great state she had always retained her deep humility. She had never been greedy or self-indulgent. She had never enjoyed pomp and circumstance. She had always been as modest and as kind as any young nun - except that she had a husband, whom she honoured above all others. Who could have been meeker or more obedient? The patience and humility of Job are well known. Male clerks are all too ready to honour the achievements of other men. They rarely mention women but, in truth, women are far more faithful and patient than any man. Women are kinder. Women are more trustworthy, then and now. If someone has a different opinion, I will be astonished. PART SIX So the earl made his way from Bologna, as I have already described, with the two children of Griselda and Walter. The news of their arrival was soon spread abroad. It was rumoured that the earl was bringing with him the new wife of the marquis, and was surrounding her with more pomp and dignity than had ever before been seen in Italy. The marquis, who had himself arranged all this, sent a message to Griselda before the arrival of the earl and his train. He ordered her to come to court, and of course she obeyed him. She arrived in her humble clothes, with no thought of herself, ready to fulfil whatever commands he gave her. She went down on her knees in his presence, and reverently greeted him. ‘Griselda,’ he said, ‘I have determined that the young maiden - the young girl who is about to become my bride - must be received with as much ceremony as possible. It must be a royal occasion. All my courtiers and servants will be consigned to a place according to their rank, and in their proper role they will serve the new princess in every way I deem to be fit. ‘It is true, however, that I do not have enough women to adorn and decorate the chambers in the luxury I desire. That is why I have called for you. You know how to spruce up the palace. You know my mind. You do not look very appealing, I admit, but the least you can do is your duty.’ ‘I will obey your command gladly, my lord,’ Griselda replied. ‘I long to be of service to you. I will do my best to please you in everything, without demur. Whatever happens, good or ill, I will never stop loving you with all my heart.’ Then she began to decorate the palace, setting the tables and making up the beds for the honoured guests. She did everything she could, and encouraged the chambermaids to finish their work as soon as possible. They were to sweep and to dust and to clean, while she busied herself about decorating the banqueting hall and the private chambers.

• From City of Night (1963)

  “I spent that first delirious night with Robbie,” the Professor was saying, “and it was Glorious! He knew his calling—unlike—” he says, looking at me accusingly, “—unlike others who merely play at this life. And I would say this to them,” he continued, staring fixedly at me, “yes, I would say: ‘You sit and listen to me, you stand and let me at the end of our interview—but you dont really Give.’... There are painters who paint without heart, poets who write without compassion—they are cold. There is too much coldness in this world: Alas! the Ice Age of the heart has not left us. Here and there, a flicker of compassion arises courageously to thaw out the icy blanket—but it is just that: a valiant flicker, soon snuffed out by the very ice it sought to melt!... Smitty gave his body, in any fashion at all, without question, without terms: His profession was to please, and one got what one paid for. Robbie gave his body and his soul.... He was like a saint who gives himself completely for his cause.... That first night,” he said, the accusing gaze relenting, “that first night with Robbie, I gave him the $15.00, and then, when he was already outside, I called him back. I gave him $10.00 more—all I had. And my friend, the author, Martin St Dennis—the Notorious American writer, child: an enfant —if now an aging enfant — terrible —... It got back to him that I had given Robbie $25.00, and Martin told me indignantly: ‘Absolutely not, Professor! You will ruin those boys! Their fee is $15.00—not a cent more!’ He couldnt understand what I had received from Robbie, my Robbie. But Martin is not a very perceptive person: His books are searchlights on the facts of our world—but cold, too, like searchlights. And where his heart should be, there is a novel.... I wish that were original but it is not: A psychiatrist said that to him once, who, incidently—how shall I say it and be modest?— “was intrigued” by me. He—the psychiatrist—persuaded me to let him give me the Rorschach test—to test my subconscious!—and I let him—on a lark. I looked at one of the inkblots, and he said, “‘What do you see?’ I answered, ‘I see you , trying to see me! ’... And that reminds me of a young assistant to the good Dr. Kinsey. The assistant didnt fool me a second; he was a professional voyeur. Do you know what that is, my dear young angel? A watcher! Science—oh, yes—truly—he was most dedicated to the science of Sexology.... Countess von Braun was fond of saying: ‘If Sex is a science, its only laboratory is the Bedroom!’ ...I introduced the young assistant to two charming youngmen I knew (one of them gained a certain notoriety by playing the naked sailor in the musical Island Paradise ), and the assistant Expressed An Interest in seeing one of their ‘wild parties’—for The Research....

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  They stayed in Rome for some time, visiting all the sites and enjoying all the pleasures of the city. So it happened that they got to hear of the emperor’s daughter, Lady Constance. Every day they heard more about her. The common report was that the daughter of the emperor (God save him!) was the most beautiful woman that ever was or ever will be in the world. Her honour was spotless. ‘If only,’ one man told them, ‘she could be queen of all Europe. She has beauty without pride. She possesses the blessings, and none of the vices, of youth. She is not impetuous or foolish. She follows the promptings of virtue in everything she does. Modesty is her guide. She is a paragon of courtesy and gentleness. Holiness is in her heart. Bounty to the poor is in her hand.’ All of this was true. But let me return to the story. The merchants declared that they would not return home until they had seen Constance for themselves. Once they had seen her, they were in truth content. They loaded their ships with merchandise and travelled back to Syria where they conducted their business as before. They prospered. There is nothing more to say. Now it so happened that these men were much favoured by the sultan of Syria. He was very courteous and gracious to them. Whenever they came back from any foreign country, for example, he invited them into his presence and questioned them about all the wonders they had seen or heard of. He loved to hear news of strange lands. So the merchants told him, among other things, about Lady Constance. They told him of her beauty and her virtue. They praised her gentleness and her nobility. They extolled her so much, in fact, that the sultan began to imagine her in his arms. He wanted to love her and to cherish her for the rest of his life. In the book of the heavens, the great dark sky above us, the stars will have written that his love was to end in his death. There can be no doubt about it. In the patterns of the stars can be seen, as if in a glass, the death of every man. Yet who can interpret them properly? In ancient times the stars had foretold the death of Hector and of Achilles, of Caesar and of Pompey; their fates were decided before they were born. In the heavens could be seen the siege of Thebes. The stars prefigured the death of Socrates, the adventures of Hercules and the misfortunes of Sampson. Yet the wit of man is dull. He cannot see what is above him.

• From The Case for God (2009)

  As I explained at the outset, my aim is not to give an exhaustive account of religion in any given period, but to highlight a particular trend—the apophatic—that speaks strongly to our current religious perplexity. This was, of course, not the only strand of medieval piety, but it was not a minor movement; it was promoted by some of the most influential thinkers and spiritual leaders of the time. In the Eastern Church, it had been crafted by Athanasius, the Cappadocians, and Maximus, who were revered as heroes of Orthodoxy. In the West, we see it in both Augustine and Anselm, as well as in the towering figure of Thomas Aquinas (1225–74). Nobody did more to absorb Aristotelian rationalism than Thomas. Destined for a monastic life, at the age of fourteen Thomas was attracted to the Dominican friars he encountered at the University of Naples, the only school in Christendom at that time to teach Aristotelian logic and philosophy. Like the Franciscans, the Dominicans were the men of the hour; these friars were not monks sequestered in a monastery but lived a life of evangelical poverty in the world, putting themselves at the service of the people. After a struggle with his family, Thomas threw in his lot with the Dominicans, studied in Paris under Albert the Great (1200–80), who was completing his magisterial commentary on Aristotle, and at the tender age of thirty-two, succeeded to his chair. Like the faylasufs, Thomas was wide open to change and new ideas. He quoted Arab and Jewish philosophers while most of his contemporaries were still committed to crusading, and his voluminous writings integrated the new sciences with traditional faith at a time when Aristotle was still a controversial figure. 28 It is difficult for us to read Thomas today. He wrote in the technical language of the new metaphysics, and his style is dry, understated, and dense. But it is also confident. Within a hundred years, the intellectual climate would change and theologians would become warier of the intellect, but Thomas had no qualms about making affirmative, positive statements about God. He thought Maimonides was wrong to insist that it was only appropriate to use negative terms that said what God was not. For Thomas—as for Denys, whom he greatly revered— affirmative speech and the silence of denial were both essential to God talk. As Being itself (ipsum Esse subsistens), God was the source of everything that existed, so all beings made in God’s image could tell us something about him. It was also permissible to exploit the exciting new techniques of logic and inference—but with one important proviso. Whenever he made a statement about God, the theologian must realize that it was inescapably inadequate. When we contemplate God, we are thinking of what is beyond thought; when we speak of God, we are talking of what cannot be contained in words.

• From The Case for God (2009)

  Renaissance religion recoiled from the arid theology of the late scholastics and had absorbed the personalized emphasis of much fourteenth-century spirituality. Lorenzo Valla (1405–57) had already stressed the futility of mixing sacred truth with “tricks of dialectics” and “metaphysical quibbles.”16 The humanists wanted the kind of emotive religion described by the Italian poet Francesco Petrarch (1304–74), who had argued that “theology is actually poetry, poetry concerning God,” effective not because it “proved” anything but because it reached the heart.17 The humanists’ textual study of the New Testament was part of their attempt to return, like any premodern reformers, ad fontes, to the “wellsprings” of their tradition, shaking off the medieval legacy in order to rediscover the gospels and the fathers of the Church. They were particularly drawn to the affective spirituality of Paul and Augustine, whom they revered not as doctrinal authorities, but as individuals like themselves, who had embarked on a highly personal and emotional quest. The humanists were largely responsible for creating the concept of the individual that would be crucial to the modern ethos. Only a person free of communal, social, or dogmatic shibboleths could innovate freely, experiment boldly, reject established authority, and risk the possibility of error. The hero of the early modern period was the explorer, who could penetrate new realms of thought and experience independently but was ready to cooperate with others. Even though they were conscious of their great achievements, the humanists nevertheless retained a traditional sense of the limitations of the human mind; their study of the early Christian writers and the classical authors of Greece and Rome, whose world had been so different from their own, had made them aware not only of the diversity of human affairs but of the way all ideas and attitudes—including their own—were indelibly influenced by historical and cultural conditions.18 Current norms could never be absolute.19 The reports of explorers, who brought back tales of civilizations that were based on quite different premises, had also enlarged their sympathies. The humanists had a passionate interest in rhetoric, fine speech, and the arts of persuasion, and Aristotle had taught them to examine the particular context of any given argument. Instead of simply concentrating on what was said, it was essential to understand how local circumstances affected any truth. Here humanists represented the more liberal ethos of modernity.

• From The Case for God (2009)

  The Dutch humanist Desiderius Erasmus (1466–1536) wanted to read the scriptures in the original languages and translate them into a more elegant Latin, and his textual work was of immense importance to the reformers. Renaissance art benefited from the anatomical drawings of Andreas Vesalius (1515–64). Other painters exploited the new mathematical understanding of space: in their own field, they were striving for a vision that was as rational as the dawning scientific ethos. The technical inventions of the period helped artists achieve an empirical accuracy and fidelity to nature that was unprecedented, based on the depiction of objects viewed from a single, objective perspective and placed in relation to one another in a unified space. 14 But this “objectivity” did not mean an abandonment of the transcendent: this “scientific art” achieved a numinous vision, just as early modern scientists sought a solution that was elegant, aesthetic, and redolent of the divine. 15 Renaissance religion recoiled from the arid theology of the late scholastics and had absorbed the personalized emphasis of much fourteenth-century spirituality. Lorenzo Valla (1405–57) had already stressed the futility of mixing sacred truth with “tricks of dialectics” and “metaphysical quibbles.” 16 The humanists wanted the kind of emotive religion described by the Italian poet Francesco Petrarch (1304– 74), who had argued that “theology is actually poetry, poetry concerning God,” effective not because it “proved” anything but because it reached the heart. 17 The humanists’ textual study of the New Testament was part of their attempt to return, like any premodern reformers, ad fontes, to the “wellsprings” of their tradition, shaking off the medieval legacy in order to rediscover the gospels and the fathers of the Church. They were particularly drawn to the affective spirituality of Paul and Augustine, whom they revered not as doctrinal authorities, but as individuals like themselves, who had embarked on a highly personal and emotional quest. The humanists were largely responsible for creating the concept of the individual that would be crucial to the modern ethos. Only a person free of communal, social, or dogmatic shibboleths could innovate freely, experiment boldly, reject established authority, and risk the possibility of error. The hero of the early modern period was the explorer, who could penetrate new realms of thought and experience independently but was ready to cooperate with others. Even though they were conscious of their great achievements, the humanists nevertheless retained a traditional sense of the limitations of the human mind; their study of the early Christian writers and the classical authors of Greece and Rome, whose world had been so different from their own, had made them aware not only of the diversity of human affairs but of the way all ideas and attitudes—including their own—were indelibly influenced by historical and cultural conditions. 18 Current norms could never be absolute. 19 The reports of explorers, who brought back tales of civilizations that were based on quite different premises, had also enlarged their sympathies.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  What else? He slew the cruel tyrant, Busirus, and forced his horse to eat him, flesh and bone. He strangled a serpent while he was still in his cradle. He broke off one of the two horns of Achelous. He destroyed Cacus in a cave of stone. He overcame and killed the mighty giant Antheus. He slew the wild boar of Mycenae. He even held the heavens upon his shoulders. No man in myth or history has killed so many monsters and prodigies as Hercules. His fame spread all over the world; he was renowned for his beauty as much as for his strength. He visited every kingdom and was welcomed everywhere. No man could defeat him. One commentator says that he was able to raise pillars to mark the eastern and western boundaries of the known world. This noble warrior had a lover. Her name was Deianira, and she was as fresh as the first day of May. The old writers tell us that she was busily employed in knitting him a shirt, as women do. It was bright and colourful, but it had one fault. It was suffused with a fatal poison. Hercules had worn it only for a few hours when the flesh began to fall from his bones. Some learned men tell us that a man named Nessus was responsible for making this shirt. I do not know. I will not accuse Deianira. I only tell you what I have read. As soon as Hercules had put on the shirt, the flesh on his back began to bake and harden. When he realized that there was no remedy he threw himself into the hot coals of a fire. He did not want to die by poison. It was too undignified. So died Hercules, a mighty and worthy man. Who can trust the dice that Fortune throws? Anyone who makes his way in the difficult world must know that misfortune and disaster are always at hand. The only remedy is self-knowledge. Beware of Dame Fortune. When she wants to mislead, or to deceive, she chooses the least predictable path. Nebuchadnezzar No one can conceive or describe the majesty of this mighty and glorious king. No one can count his wealth or estimate his power. Twice he conquered Jerusalem, and stole all the sacred vessels of the temple. He took them back with him to Babylon, where they were laid down reverently with his other treasures. He had captured the royal children of Israel and had ordered them to be castrated; then they became his slaves. Daniel was among them, and even then he was judged to be the wisest of all. It was he who could interpret the dreams of the king, when the king’s own seers and magicians were baffled by them. Clever boy.

• From The Case for God (2009)

  Aristotle thought that the universe was eternal. So his God was not the Creator, the First Cause of being, but the Unmoved Mover that set the cosmos in motion. Aristotle’s cosmology would determine Western ideas about the universe until the sixteenth century: the earth was at the center of the cosmos, and the other heavenly bodies, each in its own celestial sphere, revolved around it. What had set the stars and planets in their unchanging revolutions? He had noticed that the motion of an earthly object was always activated by something outside itself. But the force responsible for celestial motion must itself be immobile, since reason demanded that the chain of cause and effect have a starting point. In the animal kingdom, movement could be sparked by desire. A hungry lion would stalk a lamb because he wanted to eat. So perhaps longing had set the stars in motion. They were themselves so perfect that they could only yearn toward a still greater perfection, impelled by an intellectual love of the entirely self-sufficient God that was absorbed in the supreme activity of noesis noeseos (“thinking about thinking”), the ceaseless contemplation of itself. For Aristotle, theologia, “discourse about God,” was the “first philosophy” because it was concerned with the highest mode of being, but Aristotle’s God was utterly impersonal and bore no resemblance to either Yahweh or the Olympians. It had no appeal for ordinary folk.72 Aristotle was convinced, however, that a philosopher who exercised his reasoning powers to the full would be able to experience this remote deity. Like any Greek, Aristotle believed that when he thought about something, his intellect was activated by the object of his thought, so it followed that when he was engaged in the contemplation of God, he participated to a degree in the divine life. “Thought thinks on itself because it shares the nature of the object of thought,” he explained, for … thought and object of thought are the same: The act of contemplation [theoria] is what is most pleasant and best. If, then, God is always in that good state in which we sometimes are, this compels our wonder; and if in a better this compels it yet more. And God is in a better state. And life also belongs to God; for the actuality of thought is life, and God is that actuality; and God’s self-dependent actuality is life most good and eternal. We say therefore that God is living being, eternal, most good, so that life and duration continuous and eternal belong to God; for this is God.73 Even for the down-to-earth Aristotle, philosophy was not merely a body of knowledge but an activity that involved spiritual transformation. • • •

• From City of Night (1963)

  “He was,” says Chick staunchly, explaining to me: “He had them all scratching at his door. He was in the movies—we all were, then—he wasnt a Star, but everyone knew him. Why, he had an affair with Pierce Flint—the big moviestar. And Pierce loved Lance so much that when Lance left him, Pierce got married— to a woman! ... Thats when Lance met Esmeralda Drake the Third.” Jamey interrupted Chick: “Were you on the set the day Esmeralda first saw Lance?” “You know damn well I was, bitch, you tried to push me out of the camera each time you came on—like every other nelly upstart chorus boy. It was that Betty Grable musical we did—” “Rita Hayworth,” says Jamey. “Well, one of those, who cares? It couldve been Shirley Temple!” Jamey began to hum a tune from a musical, to sway his body to the rhythm. “I was just a Kid, then, but I remember it like it was this morning.” “You werent that Young,” Chick said; then to me: “Lance was doing this number with Betty Grable—or Rita Hayworth—one of those—that was right after he broke up with Pierce. Well, babe, I mean to tell you, dont let anyone tell you a moviestar isnt Powerful in this damn town. Why, when Lance left Pierce, Pierce fixed it so Lance couldnt get any work, hardly. Lance might have been a Big Star today if it hadnt been for that. Anyway, they had to finish this movie—and Lance knew he had to do Something, but quick—Lance always looks out for himself—” “Except maybe that time in Laguna,” Jamey said. “Well, you dont know what really happened, and dont pretend you do. You want to believe the worst about Lance.... Youre just: Jealous!” “Me? Jealous? Ha!” “Anyhow,” Chick continued, “Lance is doing this dance with Betty—or Rita—when Esmeralda Drake walks in—” “Esmeralda Drake the Third,” corrected Jamey. “Actually,” says Chick, “her real name was Gregory—Gregory Drake—and she came from A Fabulously Rich Family—the Drakes—and she was The Third—” “And the last—” “Yes, it’s sad. She was the only man left in the family—and, honey, she was queerer than I am,” said Chick. “Impossible!” said Jamey, throwing up his hands, this time completely knocking the cowboy hat off. “My chapeau!” he squealed; goes on: “No one—not even the dead queen who got buried in drag—is that queer!” “Shut your hole, Mae; youre swishing so much youre going to make a hurricane—not that a breeze wouldnt be welcome in this place.” Chick begins to fan himself with Jamey’s retrieved hat. “Anyway,” he continues, addressing me, “Lance nicknamed Gregory Drake the Third, Esmeralda Drake the Third—she was that nelly. Oh, babe, she was such a faggot! Awful. When Lance met her, Esmeralda was a very old man—” “Tell him what Esmeralda looked like,” Jamey said delightedly, and goes on to tell me: “She was a skinny, bony, old old man, with cheeks that looked like caves—”

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  Walter, in the course of his many hunting expeditions, had often seen this maid. He had not looked upon her in lust. Far from it. He had gazed and gazed and sighed. He had contemplated her beauty. He had recognized her to be the very image of a virtuous woman, passing all others of her age. He had seen feminine grace in her manner and appearance. It is true that many people have no insight into these things. But the marquis was an exception. He decided that he would marry Griselda and no other. The day appointed for the wedding had come. But no one in the land knew who, if anyone, was to be the bride. Many of them wondered aloud. Others asked each other in private if the marquis had broken his promise. ‘Is he not going to be married after all?’ they complained. ‘Is he going to make a fool of himself? And of us, as well?’ Yet secretly the marquis had already ordered rings and brooches and other precious gems, set in gold and azure, for the sake of Griselda. He had also found a young woman of the same stature, and had measured her for the dresses of his new bride. Griselda was sure to have a full trousseau as well as every adornment for her wedding day. It was nine o’clock on the morning of the wedding day. All the palace had been decorated. Every hall, and every little chamber, had been made ready for the celebrations. The kitchens and storerooms had been stuffed with food and drink. You could not have seen better fare in the whole of Italy. The marquis rode out in state, attended by all the company of his lords and ladies who had been invited to the wedding feast. The knights in his service also accompanied him on the royal journey. To the sound of lutes and trumpets, then, the procession wound its way to the little hamlet where Janiculus and Griselda lived. Griselda had of course no idea that all this magnificence and display were for her sake. She had gone to the well to fetch water, as usual, and was now hurrying back home to see the grand spectacle. She knew that the marquis was going to be married that day, and didn’t want to miss it. ‘I will stand with the other girls,’ she said to herself, ‘outside the door and take a look at the bride as she rides past. I will get through all the work at home as quickly as I can. Then I’ll have time to catch a glimpse of her on the way to the palace. I hope she comes this way.’

• From The Case for God (2009)

  One of the earliest of these apologists was Justin (100–160), a pagan convert from Samaria in the Holy Land. He had dabbled in Stoicism and Pythagorean spirituality but found what he was looking for in Christianity, which he regarded as the culmination of both Judaism and Greek philosophy. Philosophers also saw their great sages— Socrates, Plato, Zeno, Epicurus—as “sons of God,” and Christians used the same kind of terminology—Logos, Spirit, and God—as the Stoics. In the prologue to his gospel, Saint John had said that Jesus was the incarnate “Word” or “Logos” of God72—the very same Logos, Justin argued, that had inspired Plato and Socrates. There was no Greek equivalent to the Hebrew Shekhinah, so increasingly Christians used the term Logos to describe the divine Presence that they could experience but that was essentially separate from God’s inmost nature. Justin was not an intellectual of the first caliber, but his conception of Christ as the eternal Logos was crucial to the theologians who developed the seminal ideas of Christianity and are therefore known as the “fathers” of the Church. The Greek-educated fathers sought references to the Logos in every sentence of the Hebrew Bible. Finding the Hebrew texts difficult to understand and the ancient biblical ethos somewhat alien, they transformed them into an allegory, in which all the events and characters of what they called the Old Testament became precursors of Christ in the New. The Christians of Antioch preferred to concentrate on the literal sense of scripture and discover what the biblical authors themselves had intended to teach, but they were not as popular as the exegetes of Alexandria, who followed in the footsteps of Philo and the Greek allegorists. One of the most brilliant and influential of these early exegetes was Origen (185–254), who had studied allegoria with Greek and Jewish scholars in Alexandria and midrash with rabbis in Palestine. In his search for the deeper significance of scripture, Origen did not cavalierly cast the original aside but took the plain sense of scripture very seriously. He learned Hebrew, consulted rabbis about Jewish lore, studied the flora and fauna of the Holy Land, and, in a mammoth effort to establish the best possible text, set the Hebrew alongside five different Greek translations. But he believed that it was impossible for a modern, Greek-educated Christian to read the Bible in a wholly literal manner. How could anybody imagine that God had really “walked” in the Garden of Eden? What possible relevance to Christians were the lengthy instructions for the construction of a tabernacle in the Sinai wilderness? Was a Christian obliged to take literally Christ’s instruction that his disciples should never wear shoes? What could we make of the highly dubious story of Abraham selling his wife to Pharaoh? The answer was to treat these difficult texts as allegoria, the literary form that describes one thing under the guise of another.

• From The Case for God (2009)

  This reminds us that in any age, the religious life is always multifarious, varied, and contradictory—even within a single individual. One of the most famous Europeans of the period was Francis of Assisi (1181–1226). His life and career show us that while some Europeans were engaged in scholarly rationalism, others like Francis had no time for theology of any kind and were far more literal-minded than the apophatic Anselm. Yet Francis’s literalism, like that of the pilgrims, was neither intellectual nor doctrinal but practical. He represented a strand of popular piety that saw the life of Christ as primarily a miqra to be imitated literally down to the last detail. Francis emulated the absolute poverty of Christ in his own life; he and the Franciscan friars who followed him begged for their food, went barefoot, owned no property, and slept rough. He even reproduced the wounds of Christ in his own body. And yet this gentle saint seems to have approved of the Crusades and accompanied the Fifth Crusade to Egypt, though he did not take part in the fighting but preached to the sultan. As I explained at the outset, my aim is not to give an exhaustive account of religion in any given period, but to highlight a particular trend—the apophatic—that speaks strongly to our current religious perplexity. This was, of course, not the only strand of medieval piety, but it was not a minor movement; it was promoted by some of the most influential thinkers and spiritual leaders of the time. In the Eastern Church, it had been crafted by Athanasius, the Cappadocians, and Maximus, who were revered as heroes of Orthodoxy. In the West, we see it in both Augustine and Anselm, as well as in the towering figure of Thomas Aquinas (1225–74). Nobody did more to absorb Aristotelian rationalism than Thomas. Destined for a monastic life, at the age of fourteen Thomas was attracted to the Dominican friars he encountered at the University of Naples, the only school in Christendom at that time to teach Aristotelian logic and philosophy. Like the Franciscans, the Dominicans were the men of the hour; these friars were not monks sequestered in a monastery but lived a life of evangelical poverty in the world, putting themselves at the service of the people. After a struggle with his family, Thomas threw in his lot with the Dominicans, studied in Paris under Albert the Great (1200–80), who was completing his magisterial commentary on Aristotle, and at the tender age of thirty-two, succeeded to his chair. Like the faylasufs, Thomas was wide open to change and new ideas. He quoted Arab and Jewish philosophers while most of his contemporaries were still committed to crusading, and his voluminous writings integrated the new sciences with traditional faith at a time when Aristotle was still a controversial figure.28

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

  These two distinguished men will always be brought into companionship.1554 Stöckl, the historian of mediaeval theology, calls them the illuminating stars on the horizon of the thirteenth century.1555 Neither of them rose so high above his contemporaries as did Bernard a hundred years before. But both cast lustre upon their age and are the most illustrious names of their respective orders, after Francis and Dominic themselves. Thomas had the keener mind, excelling in power of analysis. Bonaventura indulged the habit of elaboration. The ethical element was conspicuous in Thomas, the mystical in Bonaventura. Thomas was the more authoritative teacher, Bonaventura the more versatile writer. Both were equally champions of the theology and organization of the mediaeval Church. Bonaventura enjoyed a wide fame as a preacher.1556 He was also a poet, and has left the most glowing panegyric of Mary in the form of psalms as well as in prose. Of his theological writings the most notable is his Commentary on the Sentences of the Lombard.1557 His Breviloquium and Centiloquium are next in importance. The Breviloquium,1558 which Funk calls the best mediaeval compend of theology, takes up the seven chief questions: the Trinity, creation, sin, the incarnation, the grace of the Holy Spirit, the sacramental medium, and the final state. The Preface gives a panegyric of the Scriptures and states the author’s views of Scriptural interpretation. Like all the Schoolmen, Bonaventura had a wide acquaintance with Scripture and shows an equipoise of judgment which usually keeps him from extravagance in doctrinal statement. However, he did not rise above his age and he revelled in interrogations about the angels, good and evil, which seem to us to be utterly trivial and have no bearing on practical religion. He set himself to answer more than one hundred of these, and in Peltier’s edition, his angelology and demonology occupy more than two hundred pages of two columns each.1559 The questions discussed are such as these: Could God have made a better world? could He have made it sooner than He did? can an angel be in several places at the same time? can several angels be at the same time in the same place?1560 was Lucifer at the moment of his creation corrupt of will? did he belong to the order of angels? is there a hierarchy among the fallen angels? have demons a foreknowledge of contingent events?1561 Descending to man, Bonaventura discusses whether sexual intercourse took place before the fall, whether the multiplication of men and women was intended to be equal, which of the two sinned the more grievously, the man or the woman.

• From The Case for God (2009)

  During the eighth and ninth centuries, the Muslims in the Abbasid Empire had enjoyed a cultural florescence, inspired by the encounter with ancient Greek, Syriac, and Sanskrit texts, which had recently been translated into Arabic. Many of these translators were local Christians. First they had tackled the more positive sciences, such as medicine and astronomy; then they had turned their attention to the metaphysical works of Plato, Aristotle, and Plotinus, so that gradually the philosophical and scientific heritage of ancient Greece became available to the Arabic-speaking world—but with a scientific bias. Muslims began to study astronomy, alchemy, medicine, and mathematics with such success that they made impressive discoveries of their own and developed their own tradition of what they called falsafah (philosophy). Like the European philosophes of the eighteenth century, the faylasufs wanted to live in accordance with the rational laws that, they believed, governed the cosmos. They were scientists and mathematicians and wanted to apply what they had learned to their religion. Following the example of the Greek philosophers, they began to devise their own proofs for God’s existence, based on Aristotle’s arguments for the Prime Mover and Plotinus’s doctrine of emanation. 22 Like Anselm, none of the leading faylasufs—Yaqub ibn Ishaq alKindi (d. c. 870), Muhammad ibn Zakaria ar-Razi (d. c. 930), and Abu Nasr al-Farabi (d. 980)—had any doubts of God’s existence, but they wanted to integrate their scientific knowledge with Qur’anic teaching. Many practiced the spiritual exercises of the Sufis, the mystics of Islam, finding that these yogic techniques of concentration and chanting of mantras added a new dimension to their studies. The more radical found the idea of creation ex nihilo unacceptable on philosophical grounds, but they believed that falsafah and scripture were both valid paths to God, because they served the needs of different individuals. At the same time, they were convinced that falsafah was a more developed form of religiosity because it was not rooted in a particular time and place but had universal appeal. The most distinguished faylasuf, Abu Ali ibn Sina (c. 980–1037), known in the West as Avicenna, argued that a prophet enjoyed a direct, intuitive knowledge of God that was similar to the Sufis’ and had therefore been able to bypass reason and logic, but falsafah could refine the idea of the divine, purge it of superstition and anthropomorphism, and prevent it from becoming idolatrous. Falsafah was a valuable and instructive experiment. The Muslim philosophers were open to new ideas and had no qualms about learning from Greeks who had sacrificed to idols. “We should not be ashamed to acknowledge truth and to assimilate it from whatever source it comes to us, even if it is brought to us by former generations and foreign peoples,” al-Kindi had remarked. 23 It is always dangerous to isolate religious ideas from contemporary thought. As one tenth-century faylasuf insisted, the seeker after truth must “shun no sciences, scorn no book, nor cling fanatically to a single creed.”

• From City of Night (1963)

  (I must explain: Im much better off now—much better—and whatever funds I have will be expended to finish my research into: The Lives of The Angels!... But, then, that time in New York, it was sadly different). I was completing, on my own, a study on—of all things—the angels as they appear in literature: Blake, Milton, Dante.... And when I saw Robbie, I recognized The Archangel.... And what is there about angels that has so fascinated me? The fact, perhaps, that like birds they have wings: That, to paraphrase Pope: angels rush in where fools fear to tread.... They are the true rebels.... And am I exaggerating this world of winged fleeing creatures? Remember it was such a creature who brought about The Fall: But God, Who had given them wings, was a jealous God.... He denied them the existence He had created for them: The Flight Out of spite, He created Adam and Eve—and voyeur-like, in His aged impotence, He watched them.... And it was that rebellious angel, now Satan, who won them over to his way—a rebellious life—who made them taste of the Tree of Truth, which God, in His petty omniscience, would deprive them of.... In each of my angels I find something different—but they all have one thing in common: they all have wings. It is their nature to fly away, leaving an emptiness—but a glowing emptiness!—in my heart.... At the house of Doña Mercedes, in Mexico (she was a grand Spanish woman, with a bosom which expanded yearly, to house, I told her, her gigantic Heart)—at her house, where I stayed briefly, there was a charming houseboy. Very beautiful: and the blades of his back were like sprouting wings when he crouched. Doña Mercedes said: ‘He looks more like a featherless bird to me.’ Of course she could not see with my Clarity. This was one of the fallen breed, who rebelled, but was caught, put in servitude.... My Robbie had established his own heaven in the admiring eyes of others. He was at the time one of Smitty’s boys—that is, Smitty was Robbie’s ‘Madam’—or, should I call him, his ‘Monsieur’?—is there no word?... And that night, when he walked into the restroom after me, Robbie groped me!—yes! he groped me! Dear child, I said naively to him, What Are You Doing? I would have suspected he was following Smitty’s instructions had he not groped me so—so Sincerely! ... Smitty, you might say, had risen from the ranks: from gas station attendant, in Los Angeles; thats where he began—right in the station restroom. Then he became a bartender, a famous call boy; acquired some other boys—five or six—which he sent out on assignments. Robbie was one of them.... I met Smitty when a friend gave him to me, for a night, for a long-ago birthday. Smitty could have been my guardian angel, if sex had been the only consideration. But he belonged to everyone at the same time....

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  I will first interpret the name of Cecilia, and expound its meanings in terms of her life. It means, in English, ‘the lily of heaven’, alluding to her virginal chastity. It also refers to the whiteness of her honesty, the evergreen stalk of her conscience, and the sweet savour of her reputation. Thus she is called ‘lily’. Cecilia may also mean in Latin caecis via, or ‘the path for the blind’. This refers to her teaching and her example. We also arrive at her name by conjoining ‘heaven’ and ‘Lia’, caelo et lya; heaven here means holiness and Lia is the name of the active life in the world. Cecilia may also be construed as ‘lack of blindness’, or caecitate carens. The meaning is easy to understand. The holy saint is filled with the great light of wisdom and of virtue. Then again her name may be the conjunction of ‘heaven’ and ‘leos’ or people - coelo et leos - and she is indeed the heaven of the people. Just as we may look up at the night sky and see the moon and the planets and the wandering stars, so when we observe the heavenly maid we see the shining paths of faith and of wisdom as well as the bright constellations of virtue and of good works. The philosophers tell us the seven spheres of heaven revolve quickly through the firmament, sending out great heat, so Cecilia was always swift and busy in her good works; she was as perfect in form as the celestial spheres, and she burned continually with the fire of grace. So I expound her name. The Second Nun’s Tale Heere bigynneth the Second Nonnes Tale of the lyf of Seinte Cecile This holy maid, Cecilia, came from Rome. She was of noble family, and from her cradle she was brought up in the religion of Christ. She studied the gospels faithfully, and all the time prayed that Almighty God might preserve her virginity. Yet it was deemed necessary for her to wed. Her bridegroom, Valerian, was a young man of noble descent. When the day came for their marriage, she retained all of her humility and piety. Beneath her golden wedding gown she wore a hair shirt next to her tender flesh. While the organ played, and the music filled the church, Cecilia sang a secret song in her heart to God. ‘Oh Lord,’ she prayed, ‘preserve me undefiled in body and in soul.’ For the love she bore to Christ she vowed to fast on every second and third day, spending those hours in prayer. Night fell, and the time came for bed. She must lie with her husband, according to custom, but before this took place she whispered to him, ‘My sweet and beloved husband, I have something to say to you in confidence. If I tell you this secret, will you promise never to betray it?’