Anger

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 126 of 447 · 20 per page

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  Absolon could see nothing at all, of course, and so he put out his tongue and gave her a French kiss. He was eagerly slurping her bum. But then he knew that something was wrong. He had never known a woman with a beard before. But he knew this much - he had licked on something rough and hairy. ‘Fuck me,’ he said. ‘This isn’t right.’ Alison laughed out loud, and shut the window. Absolon shook his head, and began to walk away. But then he heard Nicholas laughing, too. He scowled in anger, and muttered to himself, ‘I’ll get my own back. Wait and see.’ Then he began to rub his lips and mouth with dust and straw and cloth and chips of wood - anything to get rid of the taste. He kept on repeating to himself, ‘What a mess! I would give anything to be revenged on those two. I would give my soul to the devil, I really would. If only I had turned away. If only I had not kissed that - that thing.’ His lust of course was now completely quenched. From this time forward, from the time he kissed the arse of Alison, he never looked at another woman. He was cured of lovesickness. Women? What were they to him? So, weeping like a child that has just been whipped, he crossed the street and made his way towards the shop of a blacksmith called Gervase. Gervase forged the equipment for ploughs - that sort of thing - and just at that moment was working on a ploughshare for one of the local farmers. So Absolon knocked on the door and called out, ‘Open the door, Gervase! Hurry up!’ ‘What? Who’s there?’ ‘It’s me. Absolon.’ ‘What in God’s name are you doing here so early? What’s the matter? Oh. I know. Some young madame has got you all excited. You rise early. You know what I mean.’ Absolon was not bothered by these sly insinuations. He had no time for joking. He had other matters on his mind. ‘I can see that hot blade in the corner of the chimney,’ he said to Gervase. ‘It’s for a ploughshare, isn’t it? Can I borrow it from you for a few minutes? I won’t need it for long.’ ‘Of course you can. I would do anything for an old friend like you. You could borrow it if it were made of gold or worth a sack of sovereigns. But what

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  ‘So God be my judge I have never been discreet. I have never been backward. I have always followed my appetites. I didn’t mind if he was short or tall, black or white - if he liked me, I was on. I didn’t care if he was rich or poor, noble or serf, as long as I had him. ‘What else is there to say? At the end of the month, Jankyn was my new husband. We had a grand wedding. I gave him all my worldly goods, inherited from the previous four husbands. That is what marriage is all about. But, God, did I regret doing it! He was hard. He never let me do what I wanted. And he did beat me. Once I accidentally tore a page out of his book, and he went for me. He bashed me around the head so much that I became deaf in one ear. I still am. Yet I was stubborn. I was a lioness. And I had a loose tongue, too. He told me not to gossip in the neighbourhood, but I paid no attention to him. I still made my visits to Alison and the other dames. So then he began to preach at me, and cite all the ancient examples. There was one old Roman called Simplicius Gallus - I think that was his name - who left his wife for ever. What was her crime? One day he saw her standing on the doorstep with her head

• From Going Clear (2013)

  The Sixth Dynamic is the matter, energy, space, and time that compose the reality we live in. The Seventh Dynamic is the Spiritual, which must be obtained before expanding into the Eighth Dynamic, which is called Infinity or God. The Scientology mantra for judging ethical behavior is “the greatest good for the greatest number of dynamics”—a formula that can excuse quite a number of crimes. Every individual or group moves through stages, which Hubbard calls Ethics Conditions, that incline toward either survival or collapse. They range from the highest state, Power, to the lowest, Confusion. The way to determine what condition one is in at any given moment is through statistics, compiled each Thursday at two p.m. For a Scientology church, the relevant statistic might be how much money it is bringing in. The “org” that brings in less money week after week is in a condition of Non- Existence, which, plotted on a graph, is represented as a steeply plummeting line. A level or slightly declining line indicates a condition of Emergency. Slightly up is Normal; sharply up is Affluence. Every Scientology organization, and every member of its staff, henceforth would be judged by the implacable weekly statistics. Hubbard warned his charges, “You have to establish an ethics presence hard. Otherwise, you’re just gonna be wrapped around a telegraph pole.” The years at sea were critical ones for the future of Scientology. Even as Hubbard was inventing the doctrine, each of his decisions and actions would become enshrined in Scientology lore as something to be emulated—his cigarette smoking, for instance, which is still a feature of the church’s culture at the upper levels, as are his 1950s habits of speech, his casual misogyny, his aversion to perfume and scented deodorants, and his love of cars and motorcycles and Rolex watches. More significant is the legacy of his belittling behavior toward subordinates and his paranoia about the government. Such traits stamped the religion as an extremely secretive and sometimes hostile organization that saw enemies on every corner. Because Hubbard viewed the world that way, he awakened suspicion that there must be something very dangerous about Scientology. One by one, ports began turning away the fleet. It had begun with Gibraltar in 1967, when the ship was refused assistance during a heavy storm in the strait. England banned foreign Scientologists from entering the country for study in July 1968 and declared Hubbard an undesirable alien. Hubbard took out his frustration on his crew. He assigned Yvonne Gillham a condition of Non-Existence and reduced her to a “swamper,” which he defined as “one who cleans up.” Her hands became raw and gnarled. “She was like Cinderella,” a friend recalled, “always scrubbing.”

• From Mud Vein (2014)

  Or maybe I was just aggravated. I imagined her writing; Will not talk about father. Abuse? There was no abuse. Just nothingness. “Your book, then.” She reached under her notepad and pulled out a copy of my last novel, setting it on the table between us. I should have been surprised that she had a copy, but I wasn’t. When it was made into a movie, I didn’t think I would see it, but I did. Chances were they’d turn my book into some bastardized Hollywood knockoff. At least my book would get good publicity. They anticipated a small release, but on opening night the movie grossed three times the expected amount and then went on to top the box office for three weeks before it was knocked out by a tights-wearing superhero. My book became an overnight sensation. And I hated it. All of a sudden everyone was looking at me, looking into my life, asking questions about my art, which I had always deemed highly private. So, I bought a house with my money, changed my number and stopped answering my e-mails. For a while I was one of the most sought after interviews in the book world. Now I was a rape victim and I had cancer. I hated Isaac for making me do this. I hated him for making this the condition for performing my surgery. I’d taken to the internet, searching other surgeons who could cut out my cancer. They were plentiful. Cancer was trending. There were websites you could go to where you could see their pictures, where they went to medical school, how their former patients rated them. Five stars to Dr. Stetterson from Berkley! He took the time to know me as a person before dissecting me like a live specimen! Four stars to Dr. Maysfield. His bedside manner was stiff, but my cancer is gone. It was like a damn dating site. Scary. I’d quickly closed the window and resolved to see the shrink Isaac was forcing on me. The only peace I had at that point was knowing it was he who would cut the cancer from my body. Not any old stranger—the stranger who’d been sleeping on my couch and feeding me. “Let’s talk about your last relationship,” Saphira said. “Why? Why do we have to dissect my past? I hate it.” “To know who a person really is, I believe you have to know first who they were.” I hated where she put her words. A normal person would have said you first have to know who they were. Saphira mixed everything up. Threw me off. Used her dragged out ‘r’s’ as a weapon. She was a purring dragon. In my hesitation, her pen scratched on paper again. “His name was Nick.” I picked up my untouched coffee and spun the cup in my hands. “We were together for two years.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  The Miller’s Prologue Heere folwen the wordes bitwene the Hoost and the Millere When the Knight had finished his story everyone in our company, young and old, rich and poor, agreed that it was a noble story to be kept ever green in the memory. Our Host, Harry Bailey, laughed and joked with us. ‘By my faith,’ he said, ‘the gate has been opened. We can see the path ahead of us. Now who is going to tell the next story? The game has been well begun. Who will continue it? How about you, sir Monk? Do you have anything to compare with the Knight’s tale?’ The Miller was coming up behind, half on and half off his horse. He was so drunk that he could scarcely keep his saddle. They say of a drunken man that he has seen the devil. The Miller was pale enough. He did not have the courtesy to doff his hood or his hat, or wait for anyone else to speak. In a voice as loud as that of Pilate on the pageant stage, he cried out to our Host. ‘By the blood and bones of Christ, Harry,’ he shouted, ‘I have a noble story to tell. It will beat the Knight by a mile.’ Then he burped. Harry could see that he was drunk, and tried to calm him down. ‘Wait a little, Robin,’ he said. ‘Let someone else tell the next story, dear friend, and you can tell yours later. We have to arrange these things properly.’ ‘By God’s soul I will not. I will speak now. Or I will go my own way without you all.’ ‘In the devil’s name speak then,’ Harry replied. ‘You are a fool. You left your wits in a dish of ale.’ ‘Listen to me, all of you,’ the Miller said. ‘I admit that I am drunk. There is no point in denying it. So if I swear, or get my words mixed up, blame it on good Southwark beer. But this is it. This is the point. I want to tell you the story of a carpenter and his wife, and how a young scholar got the better of the carpenter. If you know what I mean.’ The Reeve then angrily interrupted him. ‘That’s enough. Stop spouting all this lewd nonsense. Slurring your words. It is sinful and foolish to injure the reputation of any man, and to bring wives into disrepute. Why damage the good folk? There are plenty of other things to talk about.’ The drunken Miller answered him at once. ‘Oswald, dear brother,’ he said. ‘You know the old saying. He who has no wife cannot be a cuckold. I am not saying you are one of them. I don’t know. In any case there are plenty of good wives. I would say, if you were asking, that there were a thousand good to one bad. You should know as much yourself. Unless you’re completely mad. So why are you so angry with my story? I have a wife, just the same as you. I swear on all I hold sacred that she has been faithful to me. I swear - let me think, I swear on my oxen - that I am not a cuckold. At least I hope I am not. No husband should want to know the secrets of God or the secrets of his wife. As long as he can graze on God’s plenty, in the shape of a female body, he should not bother about anything else.’ It was clear that the Miller was not about to restrain himself, but was going to tell his vulgar story in his own very vulgar way. I am only sorry that I have to repeat it here. And therefore, dear readers, forgive anything you find in the next few pages. My intentions are not bad. I am obliged to repeat everything I have heard, for good or ill. Otherwise I will have failed. I will have been unfaithful to my material. If you do not want to read the Miller’s tale, then pass on to one of the others. I am not forcing you. There are plenty of other stories here. There are history tales, and tales of piety, and moral tales galore. Don’t blame me if you choose the wrong one. The Miller is a vulgarian. You know that. The Reeve is a bit of a lout, too, along with others I could mention. They both told dirty stories. So reflect. Do not lay the blame on me. In any case, why take this game too seriously?

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  You encouraged your wife and your concubines to do the same. You are worse than a blasphemer. You also worship false gods. You will soon feel the force of the true God’s wrath. ‘You ask about the hand that wrote those three words upon the wall? It was sent by God. Trust me. Your reign is over. You are now less than nothing. Your kingdom shall be divided, given over to the Medes and the Persians.’ On that same night Belshazzar was assassinated. Darius ascended the throne, although he had no right or claim to it. So, fellow pilgrims, learn the moral of this story. Authority on earth is brittle. Power and wealth are transient. When Dame Fortune goes against you, you lose everything. You lose your friends, too. A friend made when Fortune smiles becomes an enemy when Fortune frowns. You know the proverb well enough. Cenobia Cenobia, queen of Palmyra in Syria, was renowned throughout the world for her nobility no less than for her skill in arms. No one could match her. She was of royal blood, descended from the kings of Persia. I will not say that she was the most beautiful woman in the world. I will only say that, in appearance, she had no defects at all. From her childhood she disdained feminine pursuits. She did not want to stitch or sew. She ran off into the woods and joined the hunt for wild beasts; she liked nothing better than to let the arrows fly. She was faster than the creatures she pursued, and never tired. When she was older she killed lions and leopards. She ripped a bear apart with her ‘bear’ hands.

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  I put my hand to the garland of wilting flowers at my throat, and tore it from me. Then I did the same with the sable wig, and flung it to the floor. My hair was oiled flat to my head, my cheeks were flushed with wine and anger — I must have looked terrible. But I didn’t feel terrible: I felt filled with power and with light. I said, ‘You shall not talk to me in such a way. How dare you talk to me like that!’ Beside Diana, Dickie rolled her eyes. ‘Really Diana,’ she said, ‘what a bore this is!’ ‘What a bore!’ I turned to her. ‘Look at you, you old cow, dressed up in a satin shirt like a boy of seventeen. Dorian Gray? You look more like the bleedin’ portrait, after Dorian has made a few trips down the docks!’ Dickie twitched, then grew pale. Several of the ladies laughed, and one of them was Maria. ‘My dear boy - !’ she began. ‘Don’t “dear boy” me, you ugly bitch!’ I said to her then. ‘You’re as bad as her, in your Turkish trousers. What are you, looking for your harem? No wonder they are off fucking each other with their enormous parts, if they have you as their master. You have had your fingers all over me, for a year and a half; but if a real girl was ever to uncover her tit and put it in your hand, you would have to ring for your maid, for her to show you what to do with it!’ ‘That’s enough!’ This was Diana. She was gazing at me, white-faced and furious, but still terribly calm. Now she turned and addressed the group of goggling ladies. She said: ‘Nancy thinks it amusing, sometimes, to kick her little heels; and sometimes, of course, it is. But not tonight. Tonight, I’m afraid, it is only tiresome.’ She looked at me again, but spoke, still, as if to her guests. ‘She will go upstairs,’ she said levelly, ‘until she is sorry. Then she will apologise to the ladies she has upset. And then, I shall think of some little punishment for her.’ Her gaze flicked over the remains of my costume. ‘Something suitably Roman, perhaps.’ ‘Roman?’ I answered. ‘Well, you should know about that. How old are you today? You were there, weren’t you, at Hadrian’s palace?’ It was a mild enough insult, after all that I had said. But as I said it, there came a titter from the crowd. It was only a small one; but if there was ever anyone who could not bear to be tittered at, that person was Diana.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  ¿De dónde sacó esa lencería? Es de color crema y delgadas cintas de encaje sobre los hombros, y malditamente casi transparente. Sus pezones oscuros son visibles desde aquí, al igual que las curvas de sus pechos, ya que la tela húmeda se adhiere a su cuerpo. Y mis ojos queman mientras giran por la sala hacia cada hombre que la mira y la llama. Debería estar usando eso en mi maldita cama. No en un maldito escenario. Aprieto mis puños. Parece salir de su conmoción, porque de repente abraza su cuerpo y sale disparada del escenario, dejando atrás su sudadera. Baja los escalones y corre a lo largo de la pared, hacia el pasillo donde están los baños. Algunas chicas en una mesa la agarran llamándola por su nombre, sigue avanzando, les devuelve la sonrisa y se sonroja ante sus amigas. O los amigos de su hermana. De repente, alza sus ojos y sostiene mi mirada, deteniéndose. Las chicas de la mesa la ven detenerse y siguen su mirada, observando entre ambos. Las pendientes en su estómago a ambos lados de su ombligo brillan, cubiertas en gotas de agua, y la vista de su piel hace que mi polla se llene de sangre. Usó eso. Deliberadamente se lo puso, lo que significa que estaba considerando ir allí. Levanto la vista de su cuerpo y la miro, dando un paso adelante. Mía. Retrocede un paso. Me muevo de nuevo Y ella también. —Fue un accidente —dice, frunciendo el ceño—. Ella solo estaba jugando. No necesito ninguna mierda sobre algo que no fue mi cul… Corro hacia ella y le rodeo la cintura con un brazo, tomando su rostro con mi mano y tirando de su boca hacia la mía. Gime, sorprendida, y no me importa quién nos vea en este momento. Sin romper el beso, la llevo hacia atrás, hacia el pasillo y doblando la esquina. Aparta su boca. —¿Qué estás haciendo? Pero, Dios, estoy tan hambriento. Me tiro de nuevo por sus labios, saboreando su lengua y pasando mi mano por su suave cabello. —No. —Se aleja de mí. Dejo caer mis brazos, mi corazón palpita y mis dedos aún zumban con la sensación de su piel. —No voy a pelear contigo —le digo, respirando con dificultad—, y no voy a pedirte que vengas a casa. Solo quiero decir que lo siento. Levanta la barbilla, fingiendo ignorancia. —¿Acerca de? —La pizza, la película... —Olvidarme —agrega. Me acerco, tratando de mantener la calma y mantener mis manos alejadas de ella. —No te olvidé. No puedo... olvidarme de ti. Se queda en silencio, sosteniendo mi mirada, y no estoy seguro de lo que está pasando en su cabeza, pero solo necesitaba decirle eso a la cara. No quiero que actúe porque cree que estaba siendo descuidado con ella. Sin decir una palabra, se gira y se dirige al pasillo, empujando la salida. —¿Adónde vas? —La sigo.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  —La negra es la última —explica Pike, su voz es más profunda y juguetona de lo habitual—. Si la pones en la tronera, pierdes el juego. —¿Qué obtengo si gano? —¿Qué deseas? Ella ríe suavemente, y escucho el ruido de pies arrastrándose. No puedo verlos ya que están a la vuelta de la esquina en la mesa de billar, pero ella está haciendo algo, y aprieto el pomo de la puerta con frustración. Y luego escucho su voz baja. —Creo que eso es si yo gano —responde él a lo que sea que esté haciendo ella, y puedo escuchar la sonrisa en su voz. —Mmm hmmm. —Gime ella, y pongo los ojos en blanco, no estoy segura si le está haciendo algo a él, o él a ella. ¿Qué demonios? ¿Es en serio? ¿Cuánto tiempo han estado aquí? Él sabía que yo podría llegar a casa en cualquier momento. Soy una niña, ¡por Dios! ¿Cómo se supone que terminaré los deberes de la universidad y dormiré si ellos van a hacerlo toda la noche? Estoy segura que esto es lo que él estaba planeando. Si querían jugar billar, pudieron haber ido a The Cue. La trajo aquí por sexo. Doy marcha atrás a través de la cocina y dentro del cuarto de lavandería, abriendo deprisa la puerta de la lavadora, y vaciando la cerveza de raíz en el contenedor con vaso de papel y todo. Cierro de un golpe la tapa de nuevo, enciendo la máquina y entonces abro la puerta de la secadora, sacando toda su mierda y cerrándola de un golpe también. Sí quería tratarme como una niña, entonces aquí vamos. Subo corriendo las escaleras y entro en mi habitación, enciendo mi radio casetera y pongo Bad Medicine altísimo, mientras me quito la ropa del día y me pongo un pantalón de pijama y una camiseta corta. Tomando la agarradera de la casetera, bajo las escaleras hasta la mesa de la cocina y me siento frente al último modelo de paisaje en el que estoy trabajando para la universidad, con la música todavía resonando a mi lado. Son casi diez segundos antes de escuchar las pesadas pisadas de Pike en las escaleras del sótano, y tenso mi mandíbula, preparándome. Entra a la cocina y viene directamente hacia la mesa, presionando el botón Stop/Eject de mi reproductor. La casa queda inmediatamente en silencio, y alzo mi cabeza de golpe fingiendo una mirada inocente en mi rostro. —Oh, lo siento —digo—. Pensé que no había nadie. Pike se endereza pinchándome con una mirada que dice que soy una terrible mentirosa. —Hola, Jordan. —April entra a la cocina detrás de él—. ¿Cómo estás? Le doy una tensa sonrisa. —Bien. —Y regreso mi atención a mi modelo, ensuciándome con algo de falso lodo. Pike aún está mirándome fijamente, hay un largo e incómodo silencio mientras April, probablemente, intenta descubrir qué está sucediendo. —Me… marcharé —dice finalmente.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Toda la posesividad, la necesidad de vigilarme y protegerme solo fue para tenerme aquí, así podría meterse en mis bragas. Se resistió porque se sentía mal, pero simplemente estaba ganando tiempo para convencerse. Llevarme a la cama siempre fue el plan. Ahora que ha tenido su pedazo de trasero se quitó el problema de encima, y caray, puede que April también esté en Red’s esta noche, y pueden retomarlo donde lo dejaron. Gruño, pateando una silla. Eso no me sucede a mí. Ya no más. Se termina ahora. Tomo el teléfono y llamo a Cam, recordando qué noche es. —Hola, ¿qué sucede? —responde. Curvo los labios, sintiéndome repentinamente audaz. —Siento que quiero ver mi primer concurso de camisetas mojadas. Jadea, luego chilla en el teléfono. —¡Sí! Me detengo en el camino de entrada un poco después de las nueve y miro la casa. Todavía no estará dormida, y no estoy en mejores condiciones de lidiar con ella que hace cuatro horas, cuando el trabajo terminó. Pero no puedo seguir posponiéndolo. Necesitamos hablar. Veo una pequeña luz encendida en la cocina y sé que probablemente es la que está sobre la estufa, pero el resto de la casa está a oscuras, y una parte de mí espera que realmente esté en la cama, porque no quiero hacer esto. Salto de mi camioneta, cierro la puerta y camino hacia la casa. Deslizando la llave en el cerrojo, la giro y abro, entrando en la sala oscura. No hay luz entrando desde ningún lado, y no escucho su música. Sé que plantarla no pasó desapercibido. Llamó hace un par de horas pero no dejó un mensaje. Indudablemente está enojada. Inhalo y al instante huelo el queso caliente y la carne picante. Pizza. Al entrar en la cocina, abro el horno y encuentro la caja grande de Joe's y la saco, colocándola sobre la estufa. Levanto la tapa. Cada pieza aún se encuentra en la caja, intacta. Mi estómago se retuerce, y me siento como una mierda. Por supuesto, sabía que tendría algo para cenar. De regreso a la sala de estar, tomo el control remoto y enciendo el televisor, viendo como el cristal oscuro cobra vida y la portada de The Lost Boys (1987) aparece en la pantalla de Netflix. Tenía todo listo para una noche en casa. Subiendo las escaleras, me detengo en la puerta de su habitación, sin ver una luz desde dentro que fluya por debajo. Llamo dos veces y espero. Cuando no hay respuesta, giro la manija y abro la puerta. A través de la luz de la luna entrando por su ventana, veo su cama aún hecha y una habitación vacía. Mi pulso se acelera. Todavía no tiene un auto que funcione. ¿A dónde fue? ¿Tenía que trabajar después de todo? Reviso mi teléfono de nuevo en busca de mensajes de texto, pero no veo nada. Tal vez su hermana le dio un aventón. Pero me habría dicho si tenía que trabajar.

• From Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity (1990)

  Wittig argues that the linguistic discrimination of “sex” secures the political and cultural operation of compulsory heterosexuality. This relation of heterosexuality, she argues, is neither reciprocal nor binary in the usual sense; “sex” is always already female, and there is only one sex, the feminine. To be male is not to be “sexed”; to be “sexed” is always a way of becoming particular and relative, and males within this system participate in the form of the universal person. For Wittig, then, the “female sex” does not imply some other sex, as in a “male sex”; the “female sex” implies only itself, enmeshed, as it were, in sex, trapped in what Beauvoir called the circle of immanence. Because “sex” is a political and cultural interpretation of the body, there is no sex/gender distinction along conventional lines; gender is built into sex, and sex proves to have been gender from the start. Wittig argues that within this set of compulsory social relations, women become ontologically suffused with sex; they are their sex, and, conversely, sex is necessarily feminine. Wittig understands “sex” to be discursively produced and circulated by a system of significations oppressive to women, gays, and lesbians. She refuses to take part in this signifying system or to believe in the viability of taking up a reformist or subversive position within the system; to invoke a part of it is to invoke and confirm the entirety of it. As a result, the political task she formulates is to overthrow the entire discourse on sex, indeed, to overthrow the very grammar that institutes “gender”—or “fictive sex”—as an essential attribute of humans and objects alike (especially pronounced in French).25 Through her theory and fiction she calls for a radical reorganization of the description of bodies and sexualities without recourse to sex and, consequently, without recourse to the pronomial differentiations that regulate and distribute rights of speech within the matrix of gender. Wittig understands discursive categories like “sex” as abstractions forcibly imposed upon the social field, ones that produce a second-order or reified “reality.” Although it appears that individuals have a “direct perception” of sex, taken as an objective datum of experience, Wittig argues that such an object has been violently shaped into such a datum and that the history and mechanism of that violent shaping no longer appears with that object.26 Hence, “sex” is the reality-effect of a violent process that is concealed by that very effect. All that appears is “sex,” and so “sex” is perceived to be the totality of what is, uncaused, but only because the cause is nowhere to be seen. Wittig realizes that her position is counterintuitive, but the political cultivation of intuition is precisely what she wants to elucidate, expose, and challenge:

• From The Case for God (2009)

  59 Noah and his sons had worshipped in temples that were replicas of the heliocentric universe and taught them to see nature itself as “the true Temple of ye great God they worshipped.” This primordial faith had been “the true religion till ye nations corrupted it.” Science was the only means of arriving at a proper understanding of the sacred: “For there is no way (with out revelation)* to come to ye knowledge of a Deity but by ye frame of nature.” 60 Scientific rationalism, therefore, was what Newton called the “fundamental religion.” But it had been corrupted with “Monstrous Legends, false miracles, veneration of reliques, charmes, ye doctrine of Ghosts or Daemons, and their intercession, invocation & worship and other such heathen superstitions.” 61 Newton was particularly incensed by the doctrines of the Trinity and the Incarnation, which, he argued, had been foisted on the faithful by Athanasius and other unscrupulous fourth-century theologians. Thomas Aquinas’s contemplation of the cosmos had revealed the existence of a mystery. But Newton hated mystery, which he equated with sheer irrationality: “‘Tis the temper of the hot and superstitious part of mankind in matters of religion,” he wrote irritably, “ever to be fond of mysteries & for that reason to like best what they understand least.” 62 It was positively dangerous to describe God as a mystery, because this “conduces to the rejection of his existence. It is of concern to theologians that the conception [of God] be made as easy and as agreeable as possible, so as not to be exposed to cavils and thereby called into question.” 63 For the early modern rationalist, truth could not be obscure, so the God that was Truth must be as rational and plausible as any other fact of life. Newton’s scientific theology quickly became central to the campaign against “atheism.” During these anxious years, people saw “atheists” everywhere, but they were still using the term to describe anybody they disapproved of, regardless of his or her beliefs; “atheism” thus functioned as an image of deviancy that helped people to place themselves on the shifting moral spectrum of early modernity. 64 In the 1690s, an “atheist” could be recognized by his drunkenness, fornication, or unsound politics. It was not yet possible to sustain unbelief. Certainly people experienced doubts from time to time. John Bunyan (1628–88) described the “storms,” “flouds of Blasphemies,” “confusion and astonishment” that descended on him when he wondered “whether there were in truth a God or no.” 65 But it was wellnigh impossible to maintain such skepticism on a permanent basis, because the conceptual difficulties were insurmountable. 66 The doubter would find no support in the most advanced thought of the time, which insisted that the natural laws brilliantly uncovered by the scientists required a Lawgiver. 67 Until there was a body of cogent reasons, each based on another cluster of scientifically verified truths, outright atheistic denial could only be a personal whim or passing impulse.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  —¿Estás segura que lo único que quiere es que limpies y cocines un poco? — insiste—. Los hombres, sin importar la edad, son todos iguales. Yo debería saberlo. Sí, puedes callarte ahora. Puedo cuidar de mí misma. Si los novios de la escuela secundaria y trabajar en un bar no me han enseñado eso hasta ahora… Pero vuelve a hablar, entrando en mi espacio y deteniéndome. —Solo escúchame por un segundo. —Su tono se vuelve firme—. Es una casa bonita, un vecindario seguro, y sí, puedes ahorrar un poco de dinero. Pero no tienes que quedarte aquí. —No es la casa de papá y Corinne, así que al menos hay eso —le respondo—. Y no puedo quedarme contigo. Agradezco la oferta, pero no puedo estar en el sofá, en el camino de todos, y ser capaz de estudiar con un niño de cuatro años tratando de ser un niño en su propia casa. Tengo una clase de verano los jueves, así que necesito algo de espacio para trabajar. —Eso no es lo que quise decir —replica rápidamente—. Podrías haberte quedado en ese departamento. Podrías haberlo pagado. Abro la boca, pero la cierro de nuevo, dando la vuelta para meter las hamburguesas en el horno durante unos minutos. No otra vez. ¿Cuándo se va a dar por vencida? —No puedo, ¿de acuerdo? —le digo—. No quiero. Me gusta mi trabajo, y no trabajo donde trabajas. —Por supuesto que no. —Me mira con aburrimiento—. Está por debajo de ti, ¿verdad? —Eso no es lo que dije. No pienso menos de mi hermana por su trabajo. Alimenta y viste a su hijo. Se tragó su orgullo e hizo lo que tenía que hacer, y la amo por eso. Pero, y nunca se lo diría, no es una carrera que hubiera escogido si hubiera tenido otras opciones. Y aún no me he quedado sin opciones. Cam ha estado bailando en The Hook desde que tenía dieciocho años. Al principio, era solo un trabajo temporal para mantenerse, después que su novio la dejara y también a su hijo. Pero hacer malabarismos con la universidad y su hijo llegó a ser demasiado y, finalmente, dejó la escuela. El plan era retomar el rumbo una vez que Killian comenzara el jardín de infantes, pero eso será pronto, y no creo que tenga planes inmediatos para dejarlo pronto. Está acostumbrada al dinero. Y hace casi un año, su jefe me ofreció un trabajo de camarera allí, y desde entonces ella ha estado detrás de mí, molestándome para que lo tome. Después de todo, podría ganar más que suficiente para mantenerme, y tal vez tampoco tenga que sacar tantos préstamos estudiantiles. Unos años y eso es todo, había dicho. Estaría fuera. Pero sé que servir es el trabajo, que su jefe hace que tomen las chicas, mientras las convence para que comiencen a bailar en el escenario. Y no haré eso. Tampoco veré a mi hermana hacer eso todas las noches.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  Alan got up, and then thought to himself, ‘I’ll get back into bed with John, for a quick kip.’ So he crept about in the dark, until he found the cradle. ‘I must still be arseholed. Or my head is spinning with all that shaggin’,’ he said to himself. ‘I’ve got the wrong bed. This one has the cradle. I don’t want to lie down with the miller and his wife. It must be the other one.’ So he crept up to the other bed, where the miller was still sleeping on his own. He thought that he was getting in beside John, but of course he was getting close to the miller. It got worse. He threw his arm around the miller’s neck and whispered to him, ‘John, John, you fuck-face, wake up! You’ll never believe it! I fucked the miller’s daughter three times tonight! God, she loved it. She was beggin’ for more. Beggin’ for it. What a game! I suppose you were just lyin’ here with your hand on your cock.’ The miller was by now fully awake. ‘You cunt!’ he shouted at him. ‘What have you been up to? Bastard! I’ll kill you! How dare you touch my daughter? She’s of noble blood!’ Then he took hold of Alan by the neck and tried to throttle the life out of him; he kicked him hard and punched him on the nose. Alan hit him back, and the blood ran down the miller’s chest; then they fell out of the bed, and struggled with one another on the floor like two ferrets in a sack. They rose and fell together, fists flying, until the miller stumbled; he tripped on something, and fell backwards right on top of his wife. She was fast asleep next to John, so exhausted by all the lovemaking that even the noise of the brawl had not woken her. Now the weight of the miller did. ‘Oh my God!’ she screamed. ‘Lord help me! What is going on? Wake up, Simkin! I’m going to have a heart attack. The two boys are fighting! One’s on my belly, and the other’s on my head! For God’s sake do something!’

• From The Case for God (2009)

  The obvious and self-evident alternative is to “abandon the principle of automatic respect for religious faith,” because “the teachings of ‘moderate religion,’ though not extremist in themselves, are an open invitation to extremism.” 37 This rejection of the Enlightenment principle of toleration is new. It is, surely, itself extremist. “The very idea of religious tolerance,” Harris maintains, “is one of the principal forces driving us toward the abyss.” 38 In this lack of tolerance, they are again at one with the religious fundamentalists, even though they must be aware that the absence of respect for difference has led to some of the worst atrocities in modern times. It is hard to hear talk of elimination without recalling the Nazi camp and the Gulag. As its critics have already pointed out, there is an inherent contradiction in the new atheism, especially in its emphasis on the importance of “evidence” and the claim that science always proves its theories empirically. As Popper, Kuhn, and Polyani have argued, science itself has to rely on an act of faith. Even Monod acknowledged this. Dawkins’s hero Darwin admitted that he could not prove the evolutionary hypothesis but he had confidence in it nonetheless, and for decades, as we have seen, physicists were happy to have faith in Einstein’s theory of relativity, even though it had not been definitively verified. Even Harris makes a large act of faith in the ability of his own intelligence to arrive at objective truth—a claim that Hume or Kant would have found questionable. All three of these proselytizing atheists present religion at its absolute worst. It is very important to remember the evils committed in the name of religion, and they are right to bring them to our attention. All too often, people of faith like to enumerate the sins of other traditions while ignoring the stains on their own. Christians, for example, are often eager to criticize Islam for its intolerance, showing not only an embarrassing ignorance of Muslim history but total myopia toward the crusades, persecutions, and inquisitions conducted by their own coreligionists. But claiming that religion has only been evil is inaccurate. Science is the child of logos and we should, therefore, be able to rely on scientists, with their finely honed reasoning powers, to sift the evidence in a balanced, impartial way. But Harris, for example, finds it quite acceptable to assert emphatically that “most Muslims are utterly deranged by their religious faith.” 39 This type of remark is just as biased and untrue as some of the religious rhetoric he condemns. It is also misleading to insist that all the problems of the modern world are entirely due to religion, if only because at this perilous moment in human history we need clear heads and accurate intelligence. At the beginning of his book, Dawkins asks us to imagine, with John Lennon, a world without religion.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  Everyone wants her, and everyone can have her. And all the while you are looking at me. How dare you?” ‘I pause for breath and start again. “Then you start talking about women. Some men want them for their looks, and some for their money. Some men are only interested in their figures. Others are pleased if their women can sing or dance, or talk well, or are sociable. Some like slender hands and arms. Some like long legs. Oh, you say, no man can keep guard over these castles. The enemy is sure to get over the wall and make it inside. ‘“An ugly woman lusts for any man she sees. According to you. She will leap on anyone with her tongue hanging out, like a spaniel, until she finds one who is willing to do it. There never was a goose so grey that it did not find its gander. Any itch can be scratched. This is your so-called philosophy. This is what you dole out to me when you come to bed. You say that no man needs to get married. No man who wants to get to heaven should consider it. Well, old man, may thunder and lightning strike you down! May your ancient withered neck be broken! ‘“You tell me that there is an old proverb, ‘The sight of a leaking roof, the smell of smoke, and the sound of wives, are enough to make a man flee from his home.’ You silly old fool. What are you talking about? You say women will hide their vices until they are safely married. Only then will they show them. That is an idiot’s opinion. They say that a good Englishman takes stock of his oxen and his cattle, his horses and his hounds, before he buys them. He tries out his bowls and his washbasins, his stools and his spoons, to make sure that they are sound. He even checks his chamber pots. Why does he not take the same precaution with his wife? You old dotard! You fool! How dare you say that we show our vices only when we are married? ‘“And another thing. You say that I am only happy when you are praising my good looks. That I expect you to gaze lovingly upon me, and call me ‘my most lovely wife’ in public. I expect you to make my birthday a holy day, do I? And receive expensive presents? I never heard such nonsense in my life. You are supposed to receive my old nurse and my chambermaid in great state, and to entertain my father and all his relatives? Lies. All lies from the mouth of an old goat. ‘“Oh yes. Then you make a fuss about our apprentice, Johnny. Just because he has lovely blond hair - it shines like gold, it really does - and just because he accompanies me on my shopping expeditions, you become suspicious. Johnny means nothing to me.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  He doesn’t know what he is doing.’ ‘Ma dame,’ the friar said. ‘I will not lie to you. I will be revenged upon him one way or another. I will denounce him from the pulpit. I will defame him. I will shame him. How dare he tell me to divide a thing that cannot be divided? You know what I am talking about. How can I give a portion of you-know- what to all the friars? God damn him and his fart!’ The lord listened to all this in amazement, and asked himself how it was possible for this wretched man to have the wit to put such a problem to the friar? Who could solve such a conundrum? ‘I never heard anything like it,’ he said out loud to no one in particular. ‘The devil must have put it in his mind. I don’t think that any master of arithmetic has ever asked the question. Who could demonstrate the proper method by which every friar should have a part of the sound, and the smell, of a fart? Is this man, this invalid, fiendishly clever? Or what? He is too clever for his own good. That’s for sure. Who ever heard of such a thing? One divisible part to every man alike? Tell me how. It is impossible. It cannot be done. The rumbling of a fart, well, it is just reverberation of the air. It is a hollow sound, fading ever so slowly away. No man can judge if it has been divided properly. Who would have thought that one of my own villagers would come up with something so - so problematic. And he put it to my confessor, too! He must be a madman. Eat your supper, Friar John, and forget all about it. Let the churl go hang himself!’ The wordes of the lordes squier and his kervere for departinge of the fart on twelve Jack, the young squire of the lord, was standing by the table and carving the roast meat. Of course he had heard everything. ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘please don’t be angry with me. If you gave me enough cloth to make a new gown - as a reward, if you like - I think I could tell the friar the solution to this riddle. I think I could explain to him how to divide this man’s fart among all the members of his convent.’ ‘If you give us the answer,’ the lord of the manor replied, ‘you can have your cloth. God knows you will have earned it.’ ‘My lord,’ the squire said, ‘pick a day when the weather is mild and favourable, when there is no wind or breeze to disturb the air. Then have a cartwheel with its usual twelve spokes brought into the hall here. It has to be a complete wheel.’ ‘Yes. And then?’ ‘Summon twelve friars into the hall. Thirteen make up a convent, do they not? Well, your confessor here can be the thirteenth.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  ‘Thomas, let me say one thing more for your benefit. Be careful of the anger that lies in your heart. It is like the serpent that glides through the grass with its poison hidden in its fangs. Listen to me. Don’t be so restless. Twenty thousand men, to put it no higher, have lost their lives because they have become angry with their wives or their mistresses. What is the point of quarrelling with your sweet wife? You know that if you tread on the tail of a snake it strikes back in anger? That snake is not half so cruel as a wife who believes herself to be wronged. All she wants then is vengeance. “Vengeance is mine,” said the Lord. But she is too fired up to listen. Revenge is one of the seven deadly sins. Revenge turns on the sinner, leading to destruction. Every common cleric - every parish priest - will tell you that anger leads to murder. Anger is at the mercy of pride. I could tell you so many stories of deadly anger that I would still be here tomorrow. No. All right. I won’t. But I will pray for you. I will pray, day and night, that God curbs the might of all angry men. It does great harm to set up a man of ire and vengeance as a ruler. ‘That noble gentleman Seneca has told the story of a magistrate of terrible temper. One day, during the course of his reign, two knights went out riding. It so befell that one of them came back. The other did not. The knight, returned home, was brought before the court where the judge pronounced sentence upon him. “You have murdered your comrade,” he said. “So I sentence you to death.” Then he turned to another knight in the court. “Take this man to the scaffold,” he said. “At once.” Now it so happened that, on their way to the executioner’s block, the other knight suddenly appeared. He was meant to be dead, but he was very much alive. So everyone thought that the best thing was to return, with both knights, to the court. “Sir,” said the knight who had accompanied the condemned man. “This knight has not killed his comrade. The dead man stands before you.” ‘“By God,” the judge replied. “I will have the heads of all three of you.” He addressed the first knight. “I have already condemned you to death. My word still stands. You will die.” Then he addressed the second knight. “Since you are the cause of this man’s death you, too, must be executed.” Then he turned to the third knight. “Since you disobeyed my order, I sentence you to beheading.” And that is what happened. All three men were executed.

• From The Case for God (2009)

  Many of these revolutionary intellectuals were theologically literate. In Germany, theology was an advanced and progressive discipline: two out of every five graduates had a theological degree and knew that they were in the vanguard of religious change. At the end of the eighteenth century, German scholars such as Johann Eichhorn (1752-1827), Johann Vater (1771-1826), and Wilhelm DeWette (17801849) had pioneered a new method of reading the Bible, applying to scripture the modern historical-critical methodology used to study classical texts. As a result, they had discovered that the Pentateuch had not been authored by Moses but was composed of at least four different sources, and were beginning to look at revelation and religious truth in an entirely different way. Other young men became disciples of Schleiermacher and Hegel and were eager to accelerate the dialectical progress that Hegel had described by abolishing reactionary ideologies and institutions. They were particularly incensed by the social privileges of the clergy and regarded the Lutheran Church as a bastion of conservatism. The new European atheism was a product of this hunger for radical social and political change. As part of the corrupt old regime, the churches had to go, together with the God who had supported the system.16 As modernization intensified, rapid industrialization and population growth during the 1840s led to severe social deprivation. Food riots were brutally suppressed. It was in this climate that Ludwig Feuerbach (1804–72), pupil of Schleiermacher and Hegel, published The Essence of Christianity (1841), which was avidly read, not simply as a theological statement but as a revolutionary tract. Feuerbach had taken Hegel’s call for a God and religion of this world to its logical conclusion.17 If the idea of a remote, external God was so alienating, why not get rid of him altogether? God, Feuerbach argued, was simply an oppressive human construct. People had projected their own human qualities onto an imaginary being that was merely a reflection of themselves. So “man’s belief in God is nothing other than his belief in himself. … In his God he reveres and loves nothing other than his own being.”18 Hegel had been right. God was not external to humanity; the goodness, power, and love that were attributed to him were human qualities and should be revered for their own sake.19 The idea of God had deprived Christians of self-confidence,20 encouraging them to think that “in the face of God, the world and man are nothing.”21 The people must realize that they were the only “gods” that existed and understand that any authority rooted in the idea of God was nothing more than an expression of blatant self-interest.

• From City of Night (1963)

  Then these two wise-ass marines walk into the bar—they werent queer, they were straight; just pinning the queer scene for kicks. And Lance says, ‘I want those two.’ Well, hell, I told him get the fuck away from me. And Im watching him coming on with those two wise-asses. Finally I split, didnt even go back to the hotel. I went back to Hollywood. And the next day I read how this actor (you know how the L.A. papers play things up: if a guy’s in the movies, they call him a moviestar—well, Lance never was that tough in the flix, but the papers played it up like he was—and it must have been some bitching gay editor anyway)—so the papers say how this moviestar nearly got killed out in Laguna, how he jumped off a cliff, broke both his arms. It didnt give the details, but it was clear what happened, man. You didnt have to be there to know. Lance is coming on with those two, and those two straight studs like: ugh-uh, no-sir, much-later, not-having-any. And this is putting Lance on—hes got this high opinion of himself—and he says he’ll drive them to the base, starts to put the make on them—in the car (which wasnt like him, then—I have to say)—and they still: not-having-any. So Lance says get the hell out of the car. And they come on mean with him—like clip the fuckin fairy. And Lance gets out of the car—he was drunk, anyway—and those two try to roll him. But he was broke—I know because I’d been with him—and they throw him over the cliff—like some common, helpless queer getting rolled.... Well, shit, I know you hear other stories—how they tried to make him, and he fell over by accident. Bullshit! What I told you is The Truth. And I know it, because I know that sonofabitch.... Anyway, I havent said a fuckin word to Lance since that night, and thats been years, and I dont even wanna see the bastard.... And, man, like I say, I still havent pinned what the scene is strictly with you—but I wanna warn you: Thats one cat to keep away from—that fuckin Lance O’Hara....”