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.

Page 191 of 288 · 20 per page

• From Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life (1994)

  Then a few minutes later, still with no score on the board, the tall black man dribbled slowly from one end of the court to the other, and heaved the ball up into the air, and it dropped into the basket. The crowd roared, and all the men on both teams looked up wide-eyed at the hoop, as if it had just burst into flames. You would have loved it, I tell my students. You would have felt like you could write all day. CharacterKnowledge of your characters also emerges the way a Polaroid develops: it takes time for you to know them. One image that helps me begin to know the people in my fiction is something a friend once told me. She said that every single one of us at birth is given an emotional acre all our own. You get one, your awful Uncle Phil gets one, I get one, Tricia Nixon gets one, everyone gets one. And as long as you don’t hurt anyone, you really get to do with your acre as you please. You can plant fruit trees or flowers or alphabetized rows of vegetables, or nothing at all. If you want your acre to look like a giant garage sale, or an auto-wrecking yard, that’s what you get to do with it. There’s a fence around your acre, though, with a gate, and if people keep coming onto your land and sliming it or trying to get you to do what they think is right, you get to ask them to leave. And they have to go, because this is your acre. By the same token, each of your characters has an emotional acre that they tend, or don’t tend, in certain specific ways. One of the things you want to discover as you start out is what each person’s acre looks like. What is the person growing, and what sort of shape is the land in? This knowledge may not show up per se in what you write, but the point is that you need to find out as much as possible about the interior life of the people you are working with. Now, you also want to ask yourself how they stand, what they carry in their pockets or purses, what happens in their faces and to their posture when they are thinking, or bored, or afraid. Whom would they have voted for last time? Why should we care about them anyway? What would be the first thing they stopped doing if they found out they had six months to live?

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  —Sí. —Suspira Teresa, meciéndose de izquierda a derecha con la música que suena desde un altavoz en una de las casas—. Alguien tenía que ser el adulto, y Lindsay... —se voz se desvanece y luego se endereza, aclarando su garganta—, lo siento. No pretendo ser una chismosa. —Está bien —le digo—. Evidentemente es muy reservado. He visto a la madre de Cole aquí y allá, y es difícil imaginarla con Pike. Es bastante ostentosa, y siento que el Pike que conozco sufriría un latigazo tratando de seguirle el ritmo. Al menos, por lo que Cole me ha dicho, sé que el asunto entre sus padres no duró mucho tiempo, y si él no tuviera los mismos rasgos de su padre, me pregunto si Pike estaría seguro que Cole es su hijo. Ella ha tenido al menos cuatro novios a quienes he visto en los últimos años. Teresa exhala y baja la voz. —Pike es una prueba de que aprendemos cuando nos vemos obligados a hacerlo y la madurez es más el resultado de la experiencia que de la edad —me dice—. Era el único chico de veinte años que sabía que trabajaba en dos empleos, sin siquiera pensar un segundo en todos los amigos que estaba perdiendo porque nunca podía salir. Miro hacia ella, queriendo repentinamente saberlo todo. Quiero saber cualquier información sobre quién era antes de conocerlo. —Todos sus amigos estaban comprando autos de moda —continúa—, pero él ha estado conduciendo la vieja camioneta de su padre desde que lo conozco. Nunca fue un sacrificio para él, y nunca tuvo dudas sobre cuidar a Cole. Se necesita convicción para hacer lo que sabes que se supone que debes hacer, independientemente de lo que quieras. Sus palabras me golpean, y dejo caer mi mirada. Convicción para hacer lo que sabes que se supone que debes hacer... Y de repente me siento como una mierda. Me deseaba la otra noche. Y si no fuera por Cole, no tengo dudas que hubiéramos dormido juntos. Pero Cole está allí, entre nosotros, y no podemos cambiarlo. Jamás. Está mal, y no importa cuánto lo deseo, solo se odiaría después. Su hijo siempre será más importante que cualquier otra cosa. —Es un buen hombre —dice.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  At the city of Tsarev, in the land of the Mongols, there lived a king who made continual war on Muscovy. It was a struggle in which many brave men were killed. The name of this king was Genghis Khan. He had achieved such glory by force of arms that there was no more renowned leader in the entire region. He lacked nothing that pertains to kingship. He faithfully observed all the laws of his religion; he was doughty, wise and rich. He was as pious as he was just. He kept his word in honour and in kindness. He was as stable as the centre of a circle. He was young, too, and full of life. Like any other bachelor knight, he prided himself on feats of arms. What else is there to say? He was a happy and a fortunate man, and maintained so royal an estate that no one else could hope for a better. Now Genghis Khan had, by his wife, Elpheta, two sons. The oldest of them was named Algarsyf. And the younger one was called Cambalo. He also had a daughter, Canacee by name. I could not begin to describe her beauty to you all. It is beyond my abilities. I would not be able to stammer the words. My English is insufficient. It would take an excellent orator, knowing all the arts of his trade, even to attempt to portray Canacee. But I am no orator. I am a poor squire. So it happened that, in the twentieth year of his reign, Genghis Khan proclaimed the feast of his nativity throughout the city of Tsarev. He celebrated that day every year. It was in the middle of March, I believe. The sun was powerful and strong in those climes. It was already in the first ten degrees of Aries, sign of heat and dryness, so that the weather was warm and refreshing. The little birds sang in the sunshine. Their notes rose up into the air, as if they were a protection against the keen frosts of winter. So Genghis Khan, wearing the vestments of lord and king, was sitting on his throne in the royal palace. He was holding a feast to commemorate his birthday. There was so much of everything on the tables that I will not describe the array. It would take a summer’s day to go through the entire menu. There is no point, either, in reciting the sequence of dishes brought from the kitchens. I will not mention the swans or the young herons, all boiled or roasted. I know that tastes vary. What is considered a delicacy in one country is scorned in another. In any case I cannot comment on everything. Time is running on. It is almost nine o’clock. I will resume the story where I left off.

• From Summer Sisters (1998)

  JUDY BLUME is one of America’s most beloved authors. She has written books for all ages. Her twenty-nine titles include Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret; Forever; Wifey; and, most recently, In the Unlikely Event. Her books have sold more than eighty-five million copies in thirty-two languages. She lives in Key West, Florida, with her husband, George Cooper. www.judyblume.com Facebook.com/ItsMeJudyBlume @JudyBlume Best Friends by Judy Blume Mary. Summer Sisters is dedicated to Mary Weaver. Though we never spent our summers together, she was and still is my “summer sister,” my soul mate. We met in seventh-grade homeroom and connected right from the start—Sullivan and Sussman—like a vaudeville act. And we became a team, best friends through junior high and high school and into college. We pretended to be twins separated at birth—identical in size—one with a beautiful Irish face, the other a Jewish girl with a ponytail. Inseparable. My mother, who wanted me to be perfect, recognized Mary’s beauty and winning personality but didn’t feel threatened, because Mary wasn’t Jewish. Therefore, she and I weren’t competing for the same boys. When I look back now and think of the times I lied to my mother to please her, to assure her that yes, indeed, I was the most popular, the best all-round girl, I cringe. I kept my anxieties to myself. Only my eczema gave me away. Yet my friendship with Mary survived and blossomed. I had what she wanted: A father who thought I was wonderful. A secure home where no one had to worry about paying the rent. Piles of cashmere sweaters (even if they were bought wholesale). An older brother away at college. And her life seemed romantic to me. The struggle. The bond with her mother. The irreverent sense of humor. Beauty, popularity. She didn’t have to worry about being such a good girl, such a perfect girl—or so I thought at the time. She kept her demons to herself. Didn’t we all in the fifties? There was a chemistry between us. Being together was so much fun! We felt so smug with our quick repartee and our private jokes. And the drama! We were both interested in theater, both dreamed of being onstage, like Susan Strasberg in The Diary of Anne Frank—or in movies, like Natalie Wood in Rebel Without a Cause—both of whom were just our

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  The Physician’s Tale Heere folweth the Phisiciens Tale There was, a Roman historian tells us, a knight called Virginius. He was a worthy and honourable man, with plenty of money and plenty of friends. He had only one daughter, however, a beautiful girl without equal in the whole world. Dame Nature had formed and moulded her with such care that it was as if she were ready to proclaim, ‘Look at my work here. I, Nature, have created a perfect creature in exactly the manner I wished. Who could counterfeit this beauty? Who could possibly imitate it? Pygmalion himself could do no better, even though he laboured at his forge or at his easel. Apelles and Zeuxis would do a whole lot worse, however well they tried to use their pen or brush. No sculptor could match me, either. God above has given me the power to make and unmake all the creatures of the world. I am His representative on earth. I can paint and play just as I please. All things under the moon are susceptible to my sway. I ask nothing for my work, of course. I am in perfect agreement with my superior in heaven. I do all things in honour of Him above. That is why I made this perfect beauty.’ That, I imagine, is what the dame would say. This girl, in which Nature took such delight, was just fourteen years old. Just as the dame can paint the lily white, and bestow the blush of pink upon the rose, so did she apply her skill to the little limbs of the infant before she was born. The sun turned her hair golden, like the rays of the morning. Even so, she was a thousand times more virtuous than she was beautiful. There was nothing lacking in her, nothing I cannot praise. She was chaste in body and in soul. She was a virgin in spirit as well as in flesh; she was humble and patient, never straying from the path of virtue. She was always sober and respectful in conversation, too, and although she may have been as wise as Pallas Athene she was measured in her speech. She did not put on airs and graces. She never tried to be clever. She was the perfect female, in other words, always evincing modesty and grace. She busied herself with her womanly tasks, hating sloth and idleness before all else. She did not pay homage to Bacchus, either. She knew well enough that wine, as well as youth, can provoke excitement. You do not throw oil or fat upon the fire. There were times, in fact, when she feigned illness in order to escape vain company; she was uneasy at feasts and parties and dances, where there were bound to be intrigues and amours. Those are occasions when youths, little more than children, grow up too fast. It is dangerous for them, as all experience tells us.

• From The Letter to the Hebrews (The New Daily Study Bible) (2002)

  The first is the story of Eleazar, the elderly priest (4 Maccabees 5–7). He was brought before Antiochus and ordered to eat pig’s flesh, being threatened with the direst penalties if he refused. He did refuse. ‘We, O Antiochus,’ he said, ‘who have been persuaded to govern our lives by the divine law, think that there is no compulsion more powerful than our obedience to the law.’ He would not comply with the king’s order, ‘not even if you gouge out my eyes and burn my entrails’. They stripped him naked and flogged him with whips, while a herald stood by him, saying: ‘Obey the king’s commands.’ His flesh was torn off by the whips, and he streamed down with blood, and his flanks were laid open by wounds. He collapsed, and one of the soldiers kicked him violently in the stomach to make him get up. In the end, even the guards were moved to amazed compassion. They suggested to him that they would bring him dressed meat which was not pork, and that he should eat it pretending that it was pork. He refused. ‘We should now change our course and ourselves become a pattern of impiety to the young by setting them an example in the eating of defiling food.’ In the end, they carried him to the fire and threw him on it, and ‘burned him with maliciously contrived instruments, threw him down and poured stinking liquids into his nostrils’. So he died, declaring: ‘I am dying by burning torments for the sake of the law.’

• From The Letter to the Hebrews (The New Daily Study Bible) (2002)

  Moses was faithful in all his house, but his role was the role of a servant, and his purpose was to bear witness to the things which some day would be spoken. But Christ is over his house because he is a Son. We are his house if only we keep strong the confidence and pride of our hope to the end. L ET us remember the conviction with which the writer to the Hebrews starts. The basis of his thought is that the supreme revelation of God comes through Jesus Christ and that only through him can individuals have real access to God. He began by proving that Jesus was superior to the prophets; he went on to prove that Jesus was superior to the angels; and now he proceeds to prove that Jesus is superior to Moses. It might at first sight seem that this is an anticlimax. But it was not so for a Jew. For the Jews, Moses held a place which was utterly unique. He was the man with whom God had spoken face to face as with his friend. He was the direct recipient of the Ten Commandments, the very law of God. The greatest thing in all the world for the Jews was the law, and Moses and the law were one and the same thing. In the second century, a Jewish teacher called Rabbi Jose ben Chalafta, commenting on this very passage which declared that Moses was faithful in all his house, said: ‘God calls Moses faithful in all his house, and thereby he ranked him higher than the ministering angels themselves.’ For a Jew, the step that the writer to the Hebrews takes is the logical and inevitable step in the argument. He has proved that Jesus is greater than the angels; now he must prove that he is greater than Moses, who was greater than the angels. In fact, this quotation, which is used to tell of the greatness of Moses, is proof of the unique position which the Jews assigned to him. ‘Moses was faithful in all his house.’ The quotation is from Numbers 12:7. Now, the point of the argument in Numbers is that Moses differs from all the prophets. To them, God makes himself known in a vision; to Moses, he speaks ‘mouth to mouth’. To the Jews, it would have been impossible to conceive that anyone ever stood closer to God than Moses did, and yet that is precisely what the writer of the Hebrews sets out to prove. He tells his hearers to fix their attention on Jesus. The word he uses ( katanoein ) is significant and full of meaning. It does not mean simply to look at or to notice a thing. Anyone can look at a thing or even notice it without really seeing it.

• From The Letter to the Hebrews (The New Daily Study Bible) (2002)

  (1) The real leaders of the Church preach Christ and thereby bring others to him. The British Methodist pastor and broadcaster Leslie Weatherhead tells of a public schoolboy who decided to enter the ministry. He was asked when he had come to that decision, and said it was after hearing a certain sermon in his school chapel. He was asked the name of the preacher, and his answer was that he had no memory of the preacher’s name. All he knew was that he had shown him Jesus. The duty of real preachers is to obliterate self and show to those listening nothing but Christ. (2) The real leaders of the Church live in the faith and thereby bring Christ to others. A saint has been defined as ‘someone in whom Christ lives again’. The duty of real preachers is not so much to talk to men and women about Christ as to show them Christ in their own lives. People listen not so much to what they are saying as to what they are. (3) The real leaders, if need be, die in loyalty. They show others how to live and are prepared to show them how to die. As the Gospel of John says, Jesus, having loved his own, loved them to the end (13:1); and real leaders, having loved Jesus, love him to the end. Their loyalty never stops halfway. (4) As a result, real leaders leave two things to those who come after – an example and an inspiration. Quintilian, the Roman master of oratory, said: ‘It is a good thing to know, and always to keep turning over in the mind, the things which were illustriously done of old.’ Epicurus advised his disciples continuously to remember those who in the past had lived with virtue. If there is one thing more than any other that the world and the Church need in every generation, it is leadership like that. Then the writer to the Hebrews moves on to another great thought. It is in the nature of things that all earthly leaders must come and go. They have their part in the drama of life, and then the curtain comes down. But Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever. His status above all others is permanent; his leadership is forever. Therein lies the secret of earthly leadership; real leaders are people who are themselves led by Jesus Christ. That figure, who walked the roads of Galilee, is as powerful as ever to strike at evil and to love sinners; and, just as then he chose twelve to be with him and sent them out to do his work, so now he is still seeking those who will bring men and women to him and bring him to them. THE WRONG AND THE RIGHT SACRIFICEHebrews 13:9–16

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  He could frolic like a puppy and, on love days when conflicts are resolved, he was always on hand to reconcile opposing parties. On those occasions he did not behave like a cloistered cleric, wearing a threadbare gown like some poor scholar, but rather like a master or a pope. His cloak was made of expensive cloth, and it encircled him as round as a bell just out of the mould. He affected a slight lisp, so that his enunciation seemed all the sweeter. So, as he said to me on the first evening, ‘God keep you in hith care.’ Oh, one thing I forgot - this worthy friar was called Hubert. Among our merry company was a MERCHANT with a forked beard. He was dressed in an outfit of many colours, just like the players in the Mysteries, and rode on a high saddle from which he looked down at me. He wore a Flemish hat of beaver, in the latest style, and a pair of elegant as well as expensive boots. When he expressed an opinion, he did so carefully and solemnly; he was always trying to weigh the likely profit to be gained from it. He commented, for example, that the sea between Holland and England should be defended at all costs. He was good at exchange dealings, as you would expect, and in fact this worthy gentleman was canny in every respect. He was so dignified in his business, in his buyings and in his sellings, in his barterings and in his tradings, that no one would ever know if he was in debt or not. What a notable man! Funnily enough, I did not discover his name. I never bothered to ask him. A CLERK was there, from Oxford University. He was what you and I would describe as a scholar. He had studied logic for a long time, without progressing any further. He sat upon a withered horse that was almost as thin as its rider; he was grave and gaunt and hollow-cheeked. He had obtained no benefices, and he was too unworldly to seek for any profitable post; as a result his coat was as threadbare as his purse. He would rather have at his bedside twenty books of Aristotle, bound in red or black leather, than any amount of rich clothes or expensive musical instruments. He was a philosopher but he had not yet found the philosopher’s stone; there was precious little gold in his coffers. Any money he could beg or borrow from his friends was immediately spent upon books and learning. He was a bookworm. He went down on his knees to pray for those who had paid for his education, which was not cheap, and he took the demands of scholarship very seriously indeed. He never talked more than was strictly necessary and, when he did speak, it was in careful and measured tones; he was brief and to the point, but full of elevated sentiment.

• From Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life (1994)

  Be kind to the others, grab the fleck of riverweed, notice how beautifully your bug legs scull. All the good stories are out there waiting to be told in a fresh, wild way. Mark Twain said that Adam was the only man who, when he said a good thing, knew that nobody had said it before. Life is like a recycling center, where all the concerns and dramas of humankind get recycled back and forth across the universe. But what you have to offer is your own sensibility, maybe your own sense of humor or insider pathos or meaning. All of us can sing the same song, and there will still be four billion different renditions. Some people will sing it spontaneously, with a lot of soulful riffs, while others are going to practice until they could sing it at the Met. Either way, everything we need in order to tell our stories in a reasonable and exciting way already exists in each of us. Everything you need is in your head and memories, in all that your senses provide, in all that you’ve seen and thought and absorbed. There in your unconscious, where the real creation goes on, is the little kid or the Dr. Seuss creature in the cellar, arranging and stitching things together. When this being is ready to hand things up to you, to give you a paragraph or a sudden move one character makes that will change the whole course of your novel, you will be entrusted with it. So, in the meantime, while the tailor is working, you might as well go get some fresh air. Do your three hundred words, and then go for a walk. Otherwise you’ll want to sit there and try to contribute, and this will only get in the way. Your unconscious can’t work when you are breathing down its neck. You’ll sit there going, “Are you done in there yet, are you done in there yet?” But it is trying to tell you nicely, “Shut up and go away.” Part FourPublication—and Other Reasons to Write Writing a PresentPublication is not going to change your life or solve your problems. Publication will not make you more confident or more beautiful, and it will probably not make you any richer. There will be a very long buildup to publication day, and then the festivities will usually be over rather quickly. We will talk about all of this at great length shortly. In the meantime, let’s discuss some of the other reasons to write that may surprise a writer, even a writer who hasn’t given up on getting published. There are arenas full of potential for rich reward, where your life and your sense of self and of abundance really can be changed. (All of a sudden I cannot remember if we are allowed to use the word abundance in California anymore.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  Where had he not travelled, and where had he not been victorious? He had fought fifteen battles, and taken part in three tournaments. These exploits were not for love of glory, however, but for love of Christ. Piety guided his sword. He considered himself no more than an instrument for God. That is why he was, despite his reputation for bravery, modest and prudent. In appearance he was meek as any maid, and no oath or indecency ever passed his lips. He was never insolent or condescending. He was the very flower of chivalry, in this springtime of the year; he was a true and noble knight. Do you see him in front of you? He did not wear the robes of office but a tunic of coarse cloth that would have better suited a monk than a soldier; it was discoloured, too, by the rust from his coat of mail. He had a good horse but it was not festooned with bells or expensive cloths. It was the horse of a pilgrim. He told me that he had come from an expedition in order once more to pledge his faith. He asked me about myself then - where I had come from, where I had been - but I quickly turned the conversation to another course. He was travelling with his son, a young SQUIRE, a lusty and lively young man who also aspired to knighthood. He was of moderate height, but he was strong and agile. It is said that the hair is a token of vitality; the more virile a man is, the more hair he will have. His was knit in tight blond curls that flowed down his neck and across his shoulders. He was about twenty years of age, and had already taken part in cavalry expeditions in northern France. In that short time he had made a good impression on his comrades, but the only person he really wished to impress was a certain lady of his acquaintance. I did not discover her name. His tunic was embroidered with flowers, white and red and blue; it was as if he had gathered up a sweet meadow and placed it upon his shoulders. He wore a short gown, with wide sleeves, as suited his rank. He rode well and easily with the grace of a natural horseman. He was always singing, or playing the flute. He wrote songs, too, and I learned that he could joust, and write, and draw, and dance. All the finer human accomplishments came naturally to him. In his company it was always May-time. He had good cause for high spirits. He was so passionately in love that he could scarcely sleep at night; he enjoyed no more rest than a nightingale. Yet he never forgot his manners. He had been instructed in all the arts of courtesy, and carved the meat for his father at the table.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  ‘The blacksmith always strikes,’ he said to me, ‘when the iron is hot.’ I thought this was an excellent saying. I must remember it. Is it not an example of God’s grace that such an unlearned man should outpace the wisdom of all the learned pates in the Inner Temple? He had thirty masters above him, all of them skilled in matters of law. More than a dozen of them had the expertise to run the lands and rents of any lord in England so that, unless they were out of their wits, they could live honourably and without debt. They had the knowledge to administer a whole shire, through any crisis or danger that might arise. But this was the funny thing. The unlearned manciple had always got the better of them. I will not say that he swindled them but many things, as they say, went under the thumb. The REEVE was a slender and choleric man. His beard was closely shaved, and his hair was shorn around his ears like that of a priest. His legs were so long and so lean that he resembled a staff; you could not see his calves. But he was an excellent estate manager; he kept the granaries full, and the storage bins overflowing. No auditor could ever catch him out. He knew, from the intervals of rain and drought, how to calculate the harvests of seed and grain. This Reeve had complete control of the cattle and the sheep on his lord’s estate, as well as the pigs, the horses, the livestock and the poultry. I dare say that he even managed the worms. He had kept the accounts, under the terms of his employment, since the time his lord turned twenty. He paid out promptly, too. He knew every trick used by the farm-managers, and every excuse offered by the herdsmen and the servants. They all feared him as they feared the plague. He had a pretty little house upon a heath, overshadowed by green trees. In fact he could probably have afforded to buy more property than his lord and master, for he had secretly amassed a lot of money. He had learned how to take his lord’s possessions and then sell them back to him, so that he obtained both compliments and rewards equally. He could blear eyes better than any man in England. In his youth he had the sense to learn a good trade, and had become apprentice to a carpenter. Now he sat upon a sturdy horse. It was a dapple grey, and its name was Scot. He wore a long coat of dark blue cloth, which was hitched up around a girdle. By his side he carried a rusty sword. But he had no need to fight anyone. He was at peace with the world. He came from Norfolk, he told me, near a town called Baldeswell. I had never heard of it. He said that it was close to Norwich.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  That is why I hold marriage to be a great sacrament. He who is wifeless is cursed. He is helpless. He is desolate. I am not talking about monks or friars, of course. Let me tell you this, too. Women are born to be the servants of men. They are born to help us out. When God had made Adam, and saw him lying in the grass alone and naked, He took pity on him. In His goodness He thought to Himself, ‘Let us now make a companion for this poor man who resembles him. That is the thing to do.’ And He wrought Eve. So, you see, I have proved my point. A wife is a husband’s comfort. She is his earthly paradise; she is his honey. She is so virtuous and obedient that the two of them are bound to live in harmony. They are one flesh. So of course they have one heart between them, both in sickness and in health. A wife! Good God! How can a man suffer when he has a wife beside him? I cannot say. There is no way of describing or picturing the bliss between them. If he is poor, she will help him in his labours; she keeps house for him, and wastes nothing. She approves of everything her husband does. She will never say ‘no’ when he says ‘yes’. ‘Do this,’ he says. ‘Of course, sir,’ she replies. That is the way it is. Oh happy sacrament of matrimony! You are so cordial, so delightful, so well loved and so well respected! Any man worth his salt will go down on his bended knees and thank God for the day he was married. Or else he will pray to God to send him a wife as quickly as possible. ‘Oh God,’ he says. ‘Send me a woman to last me all my life. Then I will be content.’ He will not be wrong in that, I can tell you, especially if he heeds his wife’s advice. Then he will be able to hold up his head. Women are so truthful and so wise, as I am sure you all know, that men are duty bound to follow their commandments. Do you remember how Jacob took the advice of Rebecca? His mother told him to wear the skin of a goat around his shoulders to trick his father and win his blessing. And do you remember the story of Judith, who slew Holofernes and thus saved the people of God? And then there was Abigail, who by her good counsel saved her husband, Nabal, when he was about to be slain by King David. What about Esther? She saved the people of God from a life of lamentation. She persuaded her husband, Ahasuerus, to advance the cause of Mordechai. You can look up the stories in the Bible, if you don’t believe me.

• From The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  “You’ll grow to like it.” Part of the problem was that the other teachers and the principal, Miss Beatty, thought Mom was a terrible teacher. They’d stick their heads into her classroom and see the students playing tag and throwing erasers while Mom was up front, spinning like a top and letting pieces of chalk fly from her hands to demonstrate centrifugal force. Miss Beatty, who wore her glasses on a chain around her neck and had her hair done at the beauty parlor over in Winnemucca every week, told Mom she needed to discipline her students. Miss Beatty also told Mom to submit weekly lesson plans, keep her classroom tidy, and grade the homework promptly. But Mom was always getting confused and filling in the wrong dates on the lesson plans or losing the homework. Miss Beatty threatened to fire Mom, so Lori, Brian, and I started helping Mom with her schoolwork. I’d go to her classroom after school and clean her chalkboard, dust her erasers, and pick the paper up off the floor. At night Lori, Brian, and I went over her students’ homework and tests. Mom let us grade papers that had multiple-choice, true-false, and fill-in-the-blank answers—just about anything except essay questions, which she thought she had to evaluate because they could be answered correctly in all sorts of different ways. I liked grading homework. I liked knowing that I could do what grown-ups did for a living. Lori also helped Mom with her lesson plans. She’d make sure Mom filled them in accurately, and she’d correct Mom’s spelling and math. “Mom, double L s in Halloween,” Lori said, erasing Mom’s writing and penciling in the changes. “Double E s as well, and no silent E at the end.” Mom marveled at how brilliant Lori was. “Lori gets straight A s,” she once told me. “So do I,” I said. “Yes, but you have to work for them.” Mom was right, Lori was brilliant. I think helping Mom like that was one of Lori’s favorite things in the world. She wasn’t very athletic and didn’t like exploring as much as Brian and I did, but she loved anything having to do with pencil and paper. After Mom and Lori finished the lesson plans, they’d sit around the spool table, sketching each other and cutting out magazine photos of animals and landscapes and people with wrinkled faces and putting them in Mom’s folder of potential painting subjects. Lori understood Mom better than anyone. It didn’t bother her that when Miss Beatty showed up to observe Mom’s class, Mom started yelling at Lori to prove to Miss Beatty that she was capable of disciplining her students. One time Mom went so far as to order Lori up to the front of the class, where she gave her a whipping with a wooden paddle. “Were you acting up?” I asked Lori when I heard about the whipping. “No,” Lori said.

• From The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  home from school the day before the big interview. He sat down to help me draw up a list of intelligent questions so I wouldn’t embarrass myself in front of this greatest of West Virginia’s native sons. What was going through your head when you first broke Mach I? What was going through your head when A. Scott Crossfield broke Mach II? What is your favorite aircraft? What are your thoughts on the feasibility of flying at the speed of light? Dad wrote up about twenty-five or thirty questions like that and then insisted we rehearse the interview. He pretended to be Chuck Yeager and gave me detailed answers to the questions he’d written out. His eyes got misty as he described what it was like to break the sound barrier. Then he decided I needed some solid grounding in aviation history, and he stayed up half the night briefing me, by the light of a kerosene lamp, on the test-flight program, basic aerodynamics, and the Austrian physicist Ernst Mach. The next day Mr. Jack, the principal, introduced Chuck Yeager during assembly in the auditorium. He looked more like a cowboy than a West Virginian, with his horseman’s gait and his lean leathery face, but as soon as he started speaking, his voice was pure up-hollow. As he talked, the fidgety students settled into their folding chairs and became enraptured by the legendary, world-traveled man who told us how proud he was of his West Virginia roots, and how we, too, should be proud of those roots, roots we all shared; and how, regardless of where we came from, each and every one of us could and should follow our dreams, just as he had followed his. When he finished talking, the applause about shattered the glass in the windows. I climbed up on the stage before the students filed out. “Mr. Yeager,” I said, holding out my hand, “I’m Jeannette Walls with The Maroon Wave.” Chuck Yeager took my hand and grinned. “Jes’ spell my name right, ma’am,” he said, “so’s my kin’ll know who you’re writin’ about.” We sat down on some folding chairs and talked for nearly an hour. Mr. Yeager took every question seriously and acted like he had all the time in the world for me. When I mentioned various aircraft he’d flown, the aircraft Dad had briefed me about, he grinned again and said, “Heck, I do believe we got an aviation expert on our hands.” In the hallways afterward, the other kids kept coming up to tell me how lucky I

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  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. At about nine in the morning the earl and his charges finally arrived at the palace.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  Our Host then turned to the Monk. ‘My lord,’ he said, ‘God be with you. It is your turn to tell a story. Look, we are already coming up to Rochester. It is time for you to ride forward and speak. But in truth I don’t know your name. What shall I call you? John? Or Thomas? Alban, perhaps? That’s a good monkish name. And what house do you come from, sir? Are you from Selby or from Peterborough? Your skin is very fair and very soft. You are not used to hard labour. And you are not likely to be a penitent or a flagellant. ‘My guess is that you are an official of your house. You are a sacristan, perhaps, or a cellarer in charge of all the wines. Am I right? I am sure that you are in a position of authority. That is clear from your appearance and your behaviour. You have the manner of one who leads. You are no novice. You look strong and fit, too. You could look after yourself in a fight. What a mistake it was to introduce you to the religious life. You could have been good breeding stock. A big cock among the hens. If you had followed the call of nature, you would have fathered many lusty children. No doubt about it. It is a pity that you wear the cope of office. ‘I swear to God that, if I were pope, I would give a dispensation for every strong and lusty monk to take a wife. Otherwise the world will shrink to nothing. The friars and the monasteries are full of good English spunk, and we laymen are nothing but drips in comparison. Frail shoots make a weak harvest. Our wills and our willies are so weak that nothing comes from them; no wonder that wives queue up for the attentions of you monks and friars. You have got Venus on your side. You don’t pay in counterfeit coin. You have the genuine article beneath your robes. Don’t be cross with me, sir. I am only joking. But of course there’s many a truth in a good joke.’ In fact the Monk took the Host’s jesting in good part. ‘I will play my part in this pilgrimage,’ he said, ‘by telling you a tale or two. They will be moral tales, of course. That is the mark of my profession. If you like, I can narrate the history of Saint Edward the Confessor. Or perhaps you would prefer a tragedy? I know hundreds of them. You know what a tragedy is, I suppose? It is a story from an old book. It concerns those who stood in authority, or in prosperity, only to suffer a great fall. They went from high estate to wretchedness and misery. Their stories are sometimes told in verses of six metrical feet known as dactylic hexameters - da da dum dum da da. Homer uses it. But sometimes they are told in other metres. In England we have alliteration. Then again they are often told in plain prose. Have I said enough on that subject?’ The Host nodded. ‘Now listen, if you wish. I cannot promise that I will tell you these stories - of popes, of emperors, of kings - in chronological order. I will just mention them as I remember them. Forgive my ignorance. My intentions are good.’ So the Monk began.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  wane as does the moon. You gape and chatter, much to your own cost. Your opinions are worthless, and your behaviour proves that you are never to be trusted. Only a fool would believe anything you say. The more thoughtful knew this to be true, even as they watched the others running up and down and gawping at the fine dresses. The silly folk were so pleased with the novelty of this new maiden that they could speak, and think, about nothing else. Well, enough of this. I will turn now to Griselda, and see how she is coping with the situation. She was as busy as ever. She was doing what was expected of her by Walter, and attending to all the details of the great feast. She did not care at all about the tattered state of her own clothing, but with cheerful spirit she hurried with the others towards the great gate where she could see the young bride advancing. Then she went back to work. She greeted all the guests of the marquis with due deference and propriety. No one could fault her in anything and in fact she behaved with such decorum that everyone wondered who she might be. Who was this woman, dressed so unbecomingly, who was yet the soul of tact and cheerfulness? All of them commended her. In the meantime Griselda praised the young brother and sister with such warmth and affection that no one could have equalled it. The time came when the whole company was about to sit down at the feast. At that moment, as she was supervising the preparations, the marquis called out to her. ‘Griselda,’ he said to her playfully, ‘how do you like my new wife? Isn’t she a beauty?’ ‘She is indeed, my lord. I have never seen a lovelier woman in my life. God send her good fortune. And I hope he will send both of you peace and prosperity until the end of your lives. ‘I will say one thing, however, if I may. I would beg you not to test and torment this poor girl, as you once tested me. She has been brought up more tenderly. She is more delicate than me, I believe. She could not endure adversity in the same way as a girl born and brought up in poverty. You know who I mean.’ When Walter looked upon her cheerful face, when he saw that there was no malice in her heart towards him, he recalled the number of times he had grievously offended her. She was still as steady and as constant as a stone wall. So he began to take pity on her - yes, pity for her loyalty to him. ‘Enough,’ he said. ‘You have suffered enough, Griselda. Fear no more. All things shall be well. I have tested your faith and kindness to the utmost. I have tested you in wealth and in poverty.

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

  As to man, Arnobius asserts his free will, but also his ignorance and sin, and denies his immortality. The soul outlives the body but depends solely on God for the gift of eternal duration. The wicked go to the fire of Gehenna, and will ultimately be consumed or annihilated. He teaches the resurrection of the flesh, but in obscure terms. Arnobius does not come up to the standard of Catholic orthodoxy, even of the ante-Nicene age. Considering his apparent ignorance of the Bible, and his late conversion, we need not be surprised at this. Jerome now praises, now censures him, as unequal, prolix, and confused in style, method, and doctrine. Pope Gelasius in the fifth century banished his book to the apocryphal index, and since that time it was almost forgotten, till it was brought to light again in the sixteenth century. Modern critics agree in the verdict that he is more successful in the refutation of error than in the defense of truth. But the honesty, courage, and enthusiasm of the convert for his new faith are as obvious as the defects of his theology. If be did not know or clearly understand the doctrines of the Bible, be seized its moral tone.1581 "We have learned," he says, "from Christ’s teaching and his laws, that evil ought not to be requited with evil (comp. Matt. 5:39), that it is better to suffer wrong than to inflict it, that we should rather shed our own blood than stain our hands and our conscience with that of another. An ungrateful world is now for a long period enjoying the benefit of Christ; for by his influence the rage of savage ferocity has been softened, and restrained from the blood of a fellow-creature. If all would lend an ear to his salutary and peaceful laws, the world would turn the use of steel to occupations of peace, and live in blessed harmony, maintaining inviolate the sanctity of treaties."1582 He indignantly asks the heathen, "Why have our writings deserved to be given to the flames, and our meetings to be cruelly broken up? In them prayer is offered to the supreme God, peace and pardon are invoked upon all in authority, upon soldiers, kings, friends, enemies, upon those still in life, and those released from the bondage of the flesh. In them all that is said tends to make men humane, gentle, modest, virtuous, chaste, generous in dealing with their substance, and inseparably united to all that are embraced in our brotherhood."1583 He uttered his testimony boldly in the face of the last and most cruel persecution, and it is not unlikely that he himself was one of its victims. The work of Arnobius is a rich store of antiquarian and mythological knowledge, and of African latinity. § 203. Victorinus of Petau.

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

  Finally the better genius of ancient Greece and Rome still lives in the immortal productions of their poets, philosophers, historians, and orators,—yet no longer an enemy, but a friend and servant of Christ. What is truly great, and noble, and beautiful can never perish. The classic literature had prepared the way for the gospel, in the sphere of natural culture, and was to be turned thenceforth into a weapon for its defence. It passed, like the Old Testament, as a rightful inheritance, into the possession of the Christian church, which saved those precious works of genius through the ravages of the migration of nations and the darkness of the middle ages, and used them as material in the rearing of the temple of modern civilization. The word of the great apostle of the Gentiles was here fulfilled: "All things are yours." The ancient classics, delivered from the demoniacal possession of idolatry, have come into the service of the only true and living God, once "unknown" to them, but now everywhere revealed, and are thus enabled to fulfil their true mission as the preparatory tutors of youth for Christian learning and culture. This is the noblest, the most worthy, and most complete victory of Christianity, transforming the enemy into friend and ally. CHAPTER II.THE LITERARY TRIUMPH OF CHRISTIANITY OVER GREEK AND ROMAN HEATHENISM.§ 8. Heathen Polemics. New Objections. I. Comp. The sources at §§ 4 and 5, especially the writings of Julian The Apostate Katav Cristianw'n, and Libanius, uJpe;r tw'n iJerw'n. Also Pseudo-lucian: Philopatris (of the age of Julian or later, comprised in the works of Lucian). Proclus (412–487): xviii ejpiceirhvmata katav cristianw'n (preserved in the counter work of Joh. Philoponus: De aeternitate mundi, ed. Venet. 1535). In part also the historical works of Eunapius and Zosimus. II. Marqu. d’Argens: defense du paganisme par l’emper. Julien en grec et en franc. (collected from fragments in Cyril), avec des dissertat. Berl. 1764, sec. ed. Augmentée, 1767. This singular work gave occasion to two against it by G. Fr. Meier, Halle, 1764, And W. Crichton, Halle, 1765, in which the arguments of Julian were refuted anew. Nath. Lardner, in his learned collection of ancient heathen testimonies for the credibility of the Gospel History, treats also largely of Julian. See his collected works, ed. by Dr. Kippis, Lond. 1838, vol. vii. p. 581–652. Schröckh: vi. 354–385. Neander: iii. 77 sqq. (Engl. transl. of Torrey ii. 84–93).