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.

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• From Collected Essays (1998)

  In Kingsblood Royal the sting of transgression is removed by the complete innocence of the transgressor and the impossibility of taking his one-thirty-second Negro-ness seriously. God Is For White Folks ends in quite an impressive display of abrupt insanity, murders, and sudden deaths in which all of the elderly trans gressors arc destroyed and the lover and his lass, produced, incontrovertibly, by sin, are redeemed through blood and al lowed to enter the manse. In The Path of Thunder, Lanny, despite his father's blood, is dark, and Sarie is fair, and they arc shot to death in an old cabin; it is Lanny's father, inci dentally, who shoots them. But the quarrel here is not with the violent incident; or the THE IMAGE OF THE NEGRO violent death; or the difficulty of union between black and white. The reports ofviolence may not come in the nature of a revelation, but it is a real and valid aspect of the lives that Negroes lead. One suspects, however, that the very fr equency and sameness of the reports operate on the public mind as a bludgeon, numbing the hypothetical response; it may, indeed, be insisted that unless the report has the urgency of a reve lation, the report is worthless. Out of whatever motives, we have here, in effect, merely the exploitation of an ugly reality. Finally, we are shown noth ing, we feel nothing, nothing is illuminated. The worthless ness of these novels consists precisely in that they supposedly expose a reality that in actuality they conspire to mask. For this is not the reality: the reality is more sinister, more treach erous, and more profound than this; and it is, above all, more personal. In none of the foregoing has it been my purpose to resurrect or exploit the ancient bogeyman of sex between the races, but only to inquire how and why in the first place it became a bogeyman at all, and why, if it has been exorcised, it exerts yet, as the sole breath oflife in these ambitious novels, so ferocious and unmistakable a force. It is a question we are inclined to dismiss with jeers: that old stum But the question has not been answered and the failure is significant.

• From The Swimming-Pool Library (1988)

  My little Philanderer could make a fortune out of escorting truly glamorous men—and not all of them would turn out to be as weird as the eye-catching Gabriel. It was quite likely, wasn’t it, that Phil had already caught Gabriel’s eye? I found the corner by the service lift and the steep flight of stairs up to Phil’s attic. It was a drab, cheapjack little area, unambiguously removed from the public, and yet I had come to love it in a way I never could the rest of the monstrous edifice. The little room—and above it the lonely roof—were nothing really, but like the lovers’ cottage in ‘Tea for Two’ they had been wonderfully sufficient for our romance. I knew there was no chance of finding him in—he would be well off on his laddish booze by now—but it would be comforting to sit there for a bit with the window open and surrounded by his empty clothes. When I put my key in the lock, though, there was a muffled call of surprise, I thought, from within. Phil and Bill were kneeling face to face on the bed. Bill’s hand rested on Phil’s shoulder, and it looked like some College jerk-off job. Their tilting dicks, alert as orgiasts’ on a Greek vase, withered astonishingly under my expressionless stare. Not for them the witless priapism of Gabriel; but there was enough defiance in their confusion for them not to blabber excuses—not to say anything at all. And I couldn’t think of anything much to say. I know I swallowed and coloured and took in, as if I needed to satisfy myself, the circumstantial details. Certainly there were no signs of passionate haste. Bill’s trousers were neatly folded and his vast smalls were spread like an antimacassar across the back of the chair. I nodded repeatedly and slowly withdrew, closing the door as if not to disturb a sleeper. Before I had reached the top of the stairs I heard a gasped ‘Oh my God’ and a loud frightened laugh. And so to James’s. By the time I got there my anger, hurt, care were welling up under the frigid discipline I had instinctively assumed. I smeared away stupid tears.

• From Saint Thomas Aquinas Collection (22 Books) (2016)

  Reply to Objection 3: Whereas fortitude, as stated above [3297](A[6]), has two acts, namely endurance and aggression, it employs anger, not for the act of endurance, because the reason by itself performs this act, but for the act of aggression, for which it employs anger rather than the other passions, since it belongs to anger to strike at the cause of sorrow, so that it directly cooperates with fortitude in attacking. On the other hand, sorrow by its very nature gives way to the thing that hurts; though accidentally it helps in aggression, either as being the cause of anger, as stated above ([3298]FS, Q[47], A[3]), or as making a person expose himself to danger in order to escape from sorrow. In like manner desire, by its very nature, tends to a pleasurable good, to which it is directly contrary to withstand danger: yet accidentally sometimes it helps one to attack, in so far as one prefers to risk dangers rather than lack pleasure. Hence the Philosopher says (Ethic. iii, 5): “Of all the cases in which fortitude arises from a passion, the most natural is when a man is brave through anger, making his choice and acting for a purpose,” i.e. for a due end; “this is true fortitude.” Whether fortitude is a cardinal virtue?Objection 1: It seems that fortitude is not a cardinal virtue. For, as stated above [3299](A[10]), anger is closely allied with fortitude. Now anger is not accounted a principal passion; nor is daring which belongs to fortitude. Therefore neither should fortitude be reckoned a cardinal virtue. Objection 2: Further, the object of virtue is good. But the direct object of fortitude is not good, but evil, for it is endurance of evil and toil, as Tully says (De Invent. Rhet. ii). Therefore fortitude is not a cardinal virtue. Objection 3: Further, the cardinal virtues are about those things upon which human life is chiefly occupied, just as a door turns upon a hinge [cardine]. But fortitude is about dangers of death which are of rare occurrence in human life. Therefore fortitude should not be reckoned a cardinal or principal virtue. On the contrary, Gregory (Moral. xxii), Ambrose in his commentary on Lk. 6:20, and Augustine (De Moribus Eccl. xv), number fortitude among the four cardinal or principal virtues.

• From Collected Essays (1998)

  He merited a mere 2 5 . The other two men got a total of 3 0 years in the 197 2 trial-the fire was in 1968. In any event, some of the most pertinent details of the cases arc to be found in major newspapers and in the Congressional Record: Messrs. John Conyers Jr., Ronald V. Dcllums and Charles B. Rangel speaking. And the mother of Ben Chavis, speaking fr om a church in Raleigh, N.C., has the most pertinent question, especially in light of the fact that her son is a Christian minister: "You in the Christian church, will you be diligent in keeping them fr om getting my son?" And the entire horror evolved fr om the manner in which a Wilmington judge decided to desegregate a Wilmington high school, and the tact that the black students wished to declare the birthday of the late Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. a day of mourning. I have said that it is not a new thing I have to tell you, and, indeed, most of it is not new for me. I might in my own mind, 766 OPEN LETTER TO MR. CARTER 7 6 7 as I write, be speaking of the Scottsboro Boys: where I came in, so to speak. If I know, you must certainly know of the silent pact made between the North and the South, after Reconstruction, the purpose of which was-and is-to keep the nigger in his place. If I know, then you must certainly know, that keeping the nigger in his place was the most extraordinarily effective way of keeping the poor white in his place, and also, of keeping him poor: The situation of the Wilmington ro and of the Charlotte 3 is a matter of Federal collusion, and would not be possible without that collusion. When those black children and white children and black men and white men and black women and white women were marching, behind Martin, up and down those dusty roads, trespassing, trespassing wherever they were, in the wrong waiting room, at the wrong coffee counter, in the wrong de partment store, in the wrong toilet, and were carried off to jail, they found themselves before federally appointed judges, who gave them the maximum sentence. Some people died beneath that sentence, some went mad, some girls will never become pregnant again.

• From The Unexpected Legacy of Divorce: A 25-Year Landmark Study (2000)

  But why didn’t Billy have a clue about what was coming? For a woman to empty the household takes not only careful planning but a towering rage that builds over time until it explodes in an extraordinary act of hatred and revenge. Yet Billy was taken by surprise. He was looking miserable. I touched his arm and said, “Billy, I can’t think of anything worse that could happen. What she did was awful. Thank God you didn’t kill yourself. What led to her anger? Do you understand that?” “If you mean did I hit her, I never laid a hand on her.” “Perhaps she felt trapped.” “I never thought of that.” “Do you think she was frustrated by having nothing to do except wait for an exhausted man to return home in time for sleep?” “I never thought of that, either. She complained, but look, I’m used to women complaining.” The men in this study who divorced had experiences much like Billy’s, although not as savage in their impact. In every case except one, the woman left in anger and the man was stunned. These young men genuinely liked their wives and wanted the marriage to continue. They later tried to explain what happened with platitudes—“she was too young,” “she wanted somebody else”—but basically they had no idea why their wives had deserted them. Billy was one of the very few who honestly said, “I didn’t hear her.” None of these men had been violent in their marriages nor was infidelity a big issue, although it happened occasionally. They knew their wives had complaints but did nothing to deal with the problems. One man told me that he didn’t notice that his wife had left a week earlier because he was working on a big computer assignment. When he realized she was gone, he went into an acute depression. Most recovered slowly. Several did not have any contact with another woman for years after. One man whose wife left when he was twenty-four was still not dating ten years later. He’d decided to remain alone rather than take another chance. “Once is enough,” he stated. Why don’t these young men hear their wives’ complaints? The men are intelligent and competent at work. They are decent people. But they are blind and deaf to their women and taken entirely by surprise when they leave.

• From The Unexpected Legacy of Divorce: A 25-Year Landmark Study (2000)

  Some siblings maintain the family’s moral standards. One young woman told me, “My brother and I have been incredibly close. We have always adored each other. Mom was nuts. Dad was gone. Whenever they got together, there would be mayhem in our house. When my dad came home it was like a time bomb. They would scream and throw things. Mom would hide or disappear and my brother and I would go find her. Things were so crazy, we tried to make it safe between us. Other kids thought we were strange. If my brother and I had a disagreement, we would sit down and discuss it calmly. We are very proud of how we helped each other. We are still very close.” ELEVENUndoing the PastWhile he was telling me about Anja, Larry got an urgent phone call from one of his partners about an emergency on a job site. He listened attentively, quickly assessed the situation, and offered a solution to be implemented in three phases. I was impressed by his decisiveness and ability to plan—and told him so after he got off the phone. This clearly struck a chord. His eyes became very bright as he replied, “I believe in planning. I’m always thinking about ten years ahead. It’s the best way I know of to make your life turn out the way you want it to. All the important things in my life—my education, my career, and even my marriage—have turned out because I’ve figured out what I wanted ahead of time. Sometimes it took me a while. I was pretty dumb about the marriage part, but after a while I caught on.” I decided to tease him a little. “So, you tried to plan your love life? Tell me about it.” Larry flung himself back in his chair and laughed. “I figured we’d get to that.” He settled himself and thought for a moment. “It really goes back to my mother. She told me that she knew, after one year, that her marriage was wrong but she ended up staying for ten years anyway. She felt it was morally wrong to divorce and to deprive her children of a proper family, so she stayed and got abused and beaten down until she couldn’t take it anymore. It took me a long time to see it this way but I absolutely think she made the right choice in leaving.” Larry sighed and went on. “But out of that I formed in myself a promise never to get a divorce. You remembered when you called me that I had told you, ‘When I decide to get married, it will be to the day I die.’ That was exactly my view. But the result was that I just avoided the whole issue because it seemed too much. To be truthful, it was terrifying. I asked myself, How can anyone be sure? There’s no way for that. Anyway, I was working so hard that women had no place.”

• From Great Authors of the Western Literary Tradition (2004)

  359 Jonathan Swift Lecture 54 From Pope, who is generally optimistic about the possibility of reform, we turn now to Jonathan Swift, who sees little reason to hope for any progress in the human condition. Swift, who died in 1745, composed his own epitaph, later rendered from the Latin by fellow Anglo-Irishman, W.B. Yeats, as: “Savage indignation there/Cannot lacerate his breast.” O ne still feels, in reading Swift, that “savage indignation” directed at the hypocrisies and compromises of human society, as experienced by Gulliver ( Gulliver’ s Travels, 1726), or against the English for their pro fi t-driven policies in Ireland in A Modest Proposal (1729). In this lecture, we will use these two texts to analyze the “other” side of Neoclassical thought: the extremism produced by the single-minded pursuit of the ideal of reason untempered by compassion and Swift’s rejection of the optimism and benevolence that Enlightenment thinkers championed. Born in Dublin in 1667, Swift spent much of his early years moving between Dublin and London, hoping to rise in importance in both politics and the Church. His hopes for a position in the Church of England were disappointed, and he fi nally made his home in Dublin when he was appointed dean of St. Patrick’s in 1713. While in England, Swift met Pope, and it was during his time as a member of the Scriblerus Club that he composed part of Gulliver’ s Travels (1726). Swift’s fi nal trip to England took place in 1727. By 1735, when a collected edition of his works was published in Dublin, his memory was beginning to deteriorate. In 1738, he slipped into senility and fi nally suffered a paralytic stroke; in 1742, guardians were offi cially appointed to care for his affairs. He died three years later. Swift wrote vehemently in defense of the Irish, whom he felt were abused both politically and economically by the English. Swift’s satire is in the Juvenalian tradition, a harsh and accusatory kind of satire in which

• From The Folding Star (1994)

  He was still aglow with his new role as Sibylle's esquire, sent on to the coast whilst she retreated home. I glanced in a tall mirror and saw us as a headwaiter might, as a boy with an uncle, a godfather perhaps, a bachelor evidently, who lacked an easy way with youngsters, and disheartened the lad when he was meant to be giving him a treat. The age-gap seemed to widen between us; he gripped his cutlery like a child, and piled in the good, overdressed food as if determined to get value from that at least, whilst I was too racked by other hungers to want to eat. Sometimes he pointed his knife at something and I told him what it was called in English, and he repeated the word with a nod. Dismal canned music played, the short tape slurring from incessant repetition, fragments of Mozart and Tchaikovsky swung and sugared—I saw the morning studio, the shirt-sleeved sessioneers, the villainous arranger, the mockery of everything I held dear. At another table was a respectable couple with a clever-looking boy in glasses. I knew the constraints between them at a glance, and picked up some of the exeat talk, the mother's resentful account of things at home, the son's attempts to convey the excitements of study in which the parents had no interest. A reading-list was gone into in some detail; one gathered this week he was doing The Republic —"by Plato". I found myself enlisting their support. "Isn't this music awful?" I called across. They didn't at first get my meaning, and when they did it was clear that the parents, if they'd noticed it at all, were quite grateful for its faceless protection, whilst the boy allied himself with me: "Terrible, terrible", and then seemed to regret the momentary hysteria of his tone. At a further table two old ladies had noticed the unusual breakout of conversation between strangers and I took their anxious gaze for support of my cause. I gestured to a waiter but just at the moment that he slipped away into the kitchen. I realised I was terribly angry, shaking with a sense of injustice that had glimpsed an outlet. Marcel kept his eyes on his plate, but could hardly swallow for embarrassment and horror at finding out for sure that he was sharing a room with a madman. As I turned round I kicked him under the table and he gave a yelp that accelerated the frenzy. "Excuse me!" I called to another waiter, whose back was to me, already laying the tables with sugar and jams for breakfast, when doubtless, if nothing was done, the same tape would be inanely spooling. It had just begun its second circuit of the evening, a hellish perpetual loop.

• From The Unexpected Legacy of Divorce: A 25-Year Landmark Study (2000)

  I tried to tell her about the time Racer was almost killed when Brad fell asleep. I told her I was trying to stay sober and that I’d be happy for Racer to live half-time with Brad when and if Brad cleaned up his act. Brad of course denied he had a problem with anything. He still has his big brown Italian eyes and he can be real sincere sounding and convincing.” Paula rolled her eyes and shrugged. Then her face hardened and she looked away. “The bottom line is that nothing I said made a damn bit of difference. She said the only thing that mattered was the present. The past was history. So we ended up drawing up a schedule that gave Brad the maximum time between Racer’s beginning kindergarten here in Berkeley and Brad’s work. So Racer spends every other Friday through Monday morning with Brad and Wednesday from after school until bedtime. And six weeks in the summer. We alternate holidays. I asked what happens if Brad is out of it when Racer is there, but she would not hear that. She said that I should stuff my criticism of Brad and pretend for Racer’s sake that everything is wonderful. So I figured that was it and I gave up. And we had a mediated agreement.” Mediation and Public Policy I N MANY STATES mediation is fast becoming the primary method for settling the disputes between divorcing couples. The goal is to keep their differences out of the court’s adversarial system, which all too often makes people angrier and reduces their desire to cooperate in the postdivorce years. Mediation is rooted in several principles. First, conflict between parents is harmful to children and should be actively discouraged. Second, parents know more about their children’s needs than any judge whose job it is to know the law. And third, parents are more likely to cooperate with a postdivorce plan if it is mutually negotiated versus being imposed against the will of one parent. Mediation proposes that both parents should emerge feeling that they have won. Basic to the working of the process is the notion that the past history of the marriage should not intrude on the present unless it is shown to be relevant in specific ways. These “intrusions” have been narrowly defined by most courts as those that pose a direct hazard to the physical well-being of the child. There is no doubt that mediation represents an advance over the adversarial process, which not only is dreadfully expensive but often angers and humiliates one or both parents. Mediators are specially trained by senior practitioners and have backgrounds in either law or mental health. Overall, most parents find the mediation helpful and reassuring.

• From The Unexpected Legacy of Divorce: A 25-Year Landmark Study (2000)

  His answer was straightforward. “I didn’t have any great vision all of a sudden. No religious conversion. I didn’t wake up in the middle of the night screaming or sweating. A few years ago, when I was nineteen, I just stopped. I looked at my friends and saw what was happening to them and I dropped them. I looked at myself in the mirror and I hated what I saw. I don’t know how to explain it, Judy. I guess I just did it from within. I decided I wanted to have a family and kids and I wanted a good job, so I applied to a community college and got back into school. I didn’t want to ask anyone for help, not my mom and certainly not my dad. There was no one. I’ve been working my way through college, paying for everything by myself.” I tried to keep from rubbing my eyes in disbelief as Larry went on to talk about his father in a more balanced way than I had ever heard. “You’re talking very differently about your dad than you used to, Larry.” “When I was younger,” he said, “I used to see him on weekends. In the beginning it was fun, but after a while I began to realize it wasn’t really a father-son relationship. We never really talked.” With a sudden flash of anger Larry said, “And finally I realized that he had been leading me on about everything my whole life. Suddenly I knew that I meant nothing to him, just nothing. What an asshole I had been, a goddamn monkey on a string. When I calmed down, I suddenly saw him for the pathetic creep that he was, a drunk who hits helpless women, who picks on my little sister her whole life, and who lies to his son. That’s who he really is. And that was who I was becoming. And I hated that.” Larry’s words were now spilling out nonstop. “Do you want to know what’s getting me through school, working seven days a week, going to work every night at midnight at the most boring job in the country, and coming back at six to get ready for school, earning minimum wage? Sometimes I’m so lonely I feel like I could die. But every time I think of quitting, I see my dad’s face and I say, ‘If you quit, that’s how you’ll end up.’ And that keeps me going.” As I listened to the changes in his words and way of speaking and saw how different he looked, it occurred to me that in all our previous conversations Larry had disclosed only one side of himself and his history. He’d told me a hundred times over about his anger at his mother and how little he had gotten from her, how heartsick he was at the divorce. But it was now becoming clear to me that there were reserves of strength and resilience that I had not seen.

• From The Folding Star (1994)

  "The Altidores were always marked by eccentricity, or whimsicality. And I dare say the combination of that with immense wealth was not a very sound . . . recipe. Unlike this curried chicken salad, I suppose it is. Let's eat." He went out into the hall and warbled "Marcel!" up the stairs in a sweetly silly way. There was a distant impression of dropped objects and going to the lavatory. "I gather your last lesson went well?" he said. I was still thinking of the Altidores, and my last lesson with Luc came back to me with a twinge. Then "Oh, yes, fine. Yes, he's getting much more confident." (Was he? Really he seemed much the same to me, but relations between the three of us depended on this pleasing fiction.) "What is the Altidore boy's name?" asked Paul when we had all sat down. As always I found it difficult just to bring it out—it was heralded by such inner flutterings and gongings. "He's called Luc," said Marcel. "Now did Luc tell you about his much older forebears, in the sixteenth century, for instance? They were more interesting in a way. One sees how the family fortunes have gone up and down, very wealthy in the fifteenth century, then, as you know, the old sea-canal silted up and most of the money-makers moved out. They stayed on, living on the past, as their prosperity slowly declined. It was only with the Congo business that they suddenly shot up again, I believe, and that wasn't for long." "Luc's father seems fairly well-heeled." "Luc's father sold a Memling. To Japan." "Ah." "A Nativity specially painted for his ancestor, for the altar of the private chapel of a guild, a kind of noble confraternity of which he was a member. There was an outcry—a private sale, no one knows how many millions. I'm sorry, my dear Edward, but the man is a barbarian." What an impressive and senior gust of anger. I tended to forget that Paul was twice as old as me, he had a lifetime's lead on me. Still, I did rather lust for Martin, both in himself and in the reflected glow of my longing for his son. "She's got lots of money," said Marcel, with his mouth full.

• From The Unexpected Legacy of Divorce: A 25-Year Landmark Study (2000)

  Shortly after the divorce, he told me that his father always said that women and girls were stupid and worthless. In his view, he had been left with an inferior being. Whenever Larry’s father visited, he told the boy, “You are my favorite.” He pointedly ignored his little daughter who tagged behind hoping, as she later told me, that she would at least be allowed to pet her father’s dog, Ivan. After the separation, Larry donned his father’s tie and marched around the house shouting obscene insults at his mother. He threw himself into the role of filling his absent father’s shoes, representing his father in the household and identifying with his attitudes and behavior. Years later Larry confessed to me, “I was infuriated with my mother and I wanted my dad to return home. I would regularly compile a list of my grievances against her and call up my dad on the phone and tell him what she had done wrong. He would then call her and yell at her and she would cry.” Larry continued to lead the charge against his mother for all kinds of real or imagined misdeeds, with his father acting as silent partner and sometimes coach. Sometimes Larry took the lead. At other times his father was chief inquisitor. Larry’s mother continued to feel as helpless as she had throughout the marriage. Indeed, all three protagonists—Larry, his mother, and his father—kept the interactions of the marriage alive as the boy assumed the father’s role and dominant influence in the home. In this way, the father’s departure from the home was symbolically undone. It was as if the divorce had never happened. At the same time that Larry filled the household with rude yelling his teacher told me that he was “an inhibited, anxious, withdrawn, sad child who had trouble making friends. He is a bright boy,” she reported, “but his capacity to learn has been impaired by his preoccupation with the divorce.” Larry’s academic and social learning came to a standstill for several years. His psychic energies were fully spent in frantic efforts to restore the marriage. But now, twenty-five years later, I am face-to-face with a young man who in no way resembles the furiously angry little boy who attacked his mother so relentlessly. At age thirty-two, Larry is calm, self-assured, and—as he tells me—outrageously happy. He is married to a woman “who brought love and laughter into my life.” They are expecting their second child and he has a good job as a structural engineer, which he enjoys.

• From The Unexpected Legacy of Divorce: A 25-Year Landmark Study (2000)

  Early sex was very common among girls in the divorced families and has been described in several national studies.2 In our study, one in five had her first sexual experience before the age of fourteen. Over half were sexually active with multiple partners during their high school years. In the comparison group, the great majority of girls postponed sex until the last year of high school or their early years in college. Those who engaged in sexual activity did so as part of an ongoing relationship that lasted an average of a year. Intense sexual activity serves many purposes for girls from divorced families, as it does for those in chaotic intact families. Some combine promiscuity with drugs and drinking as a way to deaden feelings. They go to bars and spend the night with the first guy who catches their fancy. The sex rarely ends in orgasm for the women, but it does bring excitement and comfort in being held and wanted. Others are more aggressive, and I have come to think of them as female Don Juans. They take dominant roles with men, getting pleasure out of seducing, conquering, and then abandoning partner after partner. “Love them and leave them” was the script. These young women are anxious to turn the tables on what they understand to be the natural pecking order between men and women. One said, “From age eighteen on I was a man. I was being like my dad. Men use, they’re powerful and they’re smart. Women are stupid and want men. I get a kick out of being sexy, smart, and using people.” Several told me that they enjoyed seducing their girlfriends’ lovers. These young women were motivated by a frank vengeance against men that was startling in its passion.

• From The Swimming-Pool Library (1988)

  I carried on being angry all day. My tiredness made it harder to resist and as I went into town later I was muttering audibly about people around me, and when they showed signs of offence, deviating abruptly into sarcastic good manners. I was full of outrage at an act in which the brittle shoppers in Liberty’s (where I went to buy socks) and the incurious drifters of Oxford Street (who got in my way) seemed all to be careless conspirators. At the Corry, I did a few ferocious exercises and then flaked out and dropped into the pool with more than usual relief. But even there the slowness and clumsiness of others enraged me, and I was becoming the victim of one of those premature oldsters who bump into one on purpose, just for the muffled charge of contact. I wondered what I would do or say if I saw Colin. Was the whole matter strictly speaking sub judice? Would it have been any service to James to deal angrily, even ironically, with the officer who had charged him? I had all sorts of plans, not necessarily the wiser for their violent neatness. James’s experience, like mine with the skinheads, made me abruptly selfconscious, gave me an urge to solidarity with my kind that I wasn’t used to in our liberal times. In the busy one o’clock changing-room, cross though I was, I looked at the others, the bankers, the teachers, the journos, the advertising johnnies, the managers of hamburger outlets, the actors, the consultants, the dancers from West End musicals, the scaffolders, the rack-renters, queuing for the hair dryer and clouding the air with Trouble for Men, with a kind of foreboding, as an exotic species menaced by brutal predators. It was outrageous that Colin should have joined the brutes. I could see him clearly in memory, his tan and his weird eyes—hungry and yet chilly—and his habit of hanging about, the feeling he gave that something might happen.

• From Collected Essays (1998)

  They have corralled you where you are for their ease and their profit, and are doing all in their power to prevent you fr om finding out enough about yourself to be able to rejoice in the only life you have. * 7 + 4 OTHER ESSAYS One docs not wish to believe that the American Negro can feel this way, but that is because the Christian world has been misled by its own rhetoric and narcoticized by its own power. For many generations the natives of the Belgian Congo, for example, endured the most unspeakable atrocities at the hands of the Belgians, at the hands of Europe. Their suffering oc curred in silence. This suffering was not indignantly reported in the Western press, as the suffering of white men would have been. The suffering of this native was considered necessary, alas, for European, Christian dominance. And, since the world at large knew virtually nothing concerning the suffering of this native, when he rose he was not hailed as a hero fighting for his land, but condemned as a savage, hungry for white flesh. The Christian world considered Belgium to be a civilized country; but there was not only no reason for the Congolese to feel that way about Belgium; there was no possibility that they could. What will the Christian world, which is so uneasily silent now, say on that day which is coming when the black native of South Africa begins to massacre the masters who have mas sacred him so long? It is true that two wrongs don't make a right, as we love to point out to the people we have wronged. But one wrong doesn't make a right, either. People who have been wronged will attempt to right the wrong; they would not be people if they didn't. They can rarely afford to be scrupulous about the means they will use. They will use such means as come to hand. Neither, in the main, will they dis tinguish one oppressor fr om another, nor see through to the root principle of their oppression. In the American context, the most ironical thing about Ne gro anti-Semitism is that the Negro is really condemning the Jew for having become an American white man-for having become, in effect, a Christian. The Jew profits fr om his status in America, and he must expect Negroes to distrust him for it. The Jew docs not realize that the credential he offers, the fact that he has been despised and slaughtered, docs not in crease the Negro's understanding. It increases the Negro's rage. For it is not here, and not now, that the Jew is being slaugh tered, and he is never despised, here, as the Negro is, because NEGROES ARE ANTI-SEMITIC BECAUSE ... 745 he is an American.

• From Saint Thomas Aquinas Collection (22 Books) (2016)

  We should beware lest our anger grow in intensity, having its beginning in the heart, and finally leading on to hatred. For there is this difference between anger and hatred, that anger is sudden, but hatred is long-lived and, thus, is a mortal sin: “Whoever hates his brother is a murderer” [1 Jn 3:15]. And the reason is because he kills both himself (by destroying charity) and another. Thus, St. Augustine in his “Rule” says: “Let there be no quarrels among you; or if they do arise, then let them end quickly, lest anger should grow into hatred, the mote becomes a beam, and the soul becomes a murderer.” Again: “A passionate man stirs up strife” [Prov 15:18]. “Cursed be their fury, because it was stubborn, and their wrath, because it was cruel” [Gen 49:7]. We must take care lest our wrath explode in angry words: “A fool immediately shows his anger” [Prov 12:16]. Now, angry words are twofold in effect; either they injure another, or they express one’s own pride in oneself. Our Lord has reference to the first when He said: “And whoever says to his brother: ‘You fool,’ shall be in danger of hell fire” [Mt 5:22]. And He has reference to the latter in the words: “And he who shall say: ‘Raca,’ shall be in danger of the council” [ibid.]. Moreover: “A mild answer breaks wrath, but a harsh word stirs up fury” [Prov 15:1]. Finally, we must beware lest anger provoke us to deeds. In all our dealings we should observe two things, namely, justice and mercy; but anger hinders us in both: “For the anger of a man does not work the justice of God” [James 1:20]. For such a one may indeed be willing but his anger prevents him. A certain philosopher once said to a man who had offended him: “I would punish you, were I not angry.” “Anger has no mercy, nor fury when it breaks forth” [Prov 27:4]. And: “In their fury they slew a man” [Gen 49:6]. It is for all this that Christ taught us not only to beware of murder but also of anger. The good physician removes the external symptoms of a malady; and, furthermore, he even removes the very root of the illness, so that there will be no relapse. So also the Lord wishes us to avoid the beginnings of sins; and anger is thus to be avoided because it is the beginning of murder. ARTICLE 8 THE SIXTH COMMANDMENT “YOU SHALL NOT COMMIT ADULTERY.”After the prohibition of murder, adultery is forbidden. This is fitting, since husband and wife are as one body. “They shall be,” says the Lord, “two in one flesh” [Gen 2:24]. Therefore, after an injury inflicted upon a man in his own person, none is so grave as that which is inflicted upon a person with whom one is joined.

• From Saint Thomas Aquinas Collection (22 Books) (2016)

  GREGORY. (xxv. Moral.) It is one thing not to do good, another to hate the teacher of goodness; as there is a difference between sudden and deliberate sins. Our state generally is that we love what is good, but from infirmity cannot perform it. But to sin of set purpose, is neither to do nor to love what is good. As then it is sometimes a heavier offence to love than to do, so is it more wicked to hate justice than not to do it. There are some in the Church, who not only do not do what is good, but even persecute it, and hate in others what they neglect to do themselves. The sin of these men is not that of infirmity or ignorance, but deliberate wilful sin. 15:26–2726. But when the Comforter is come, whom I will send unto you from the Father, even the Spirit of truth, which proceedeth from the Father, he shall testify of me: 27. And ye also shall bear witness, because ye have been with me from the beginning. CHRYSOSTOM. (Hom. lxxvii. 2) The disciples might say, If they have heard words from Thee, such as none other hath spoken, if they have seen works of Him, such as none other hath done, and yet have not been convinced, but have hated Thy Father, and Thee with Him, why dost Thou send us to preach? How shall we be believed? Such thoughts as these He now answers: But when the Comforter is come, Whom I will send unto you from the Father, even the Spirit of Truth which proceedeth from the Father, he shall testify of Me. AUGUSTINE. (Tr. xcii. 2) As if He said, Seeing Me, they hated and killed Me: but the Comforter shall give such testimony concerning Me, as shall make them believe, though they see Me not. And because He shall testify, ye shall testify also: And ye also shall bear witness: He will inspire your hearts, and ye shall proclaim with your voices. And ye will preach what ye know; Because ye have been with Me from the beginning; which now ye do not do, because ye have not yet the fulness of the Spirit. But the love of God shall then be shed abroad in your hearts by the Spirit which shall be given you, and shall make you confident witnesses to Me. The Holy Spirit by His testimony made others testify; taking away fear from the friends of Christ’s, and converting the hatred of His enemies into love.

• From Cleanness (2020)

  It was about joy, the story he would tell me, but it wasn’t joy I saw as he moved back and forth between my cock and my hand, or not only joy. I had the sense that he was looking for something and not finding it, making his movements sharper and faster; he was asking a question I didn’t know how to answer, that I tried to answer by jabbing my hand and twisting it with each movement he made. But he was frustrated, I thought, and finally he stopped his motion, he forced himself down on my cock, taking me as deep as he could, shaking his head a little as if to work me in deeper, like a dog worrying a toy. I used my free hand to grab his head and fucked him as hard as I could, savagely, in a way meant to hurt him. I tilted slightly on my side and wrapped my legs around his head, trapping him and moving my hips very fast, as hard and as fast as I could, an uncontrolled motion, a kind of spasm to echo his own spasm as he choked on me, though even as he choked he locked his arms around my ass, to keep me from pulling away. I made a sound then too, loud and guttural, almost a shout, and it was only when I heard it that I realized it was anger I felt, hot and eager, I didn’t know where it came from but I would make him feel it too, I thought. I held him in place even as I felt him try to pull his head back, even after he started slapping my thighs again I held him down. I wanted to frighten him, I think, I wanted it not to be a game. You want it, I said as he struggled, you want it, take it then, I said, take it, you fucking whore, and it was the shock of the words that made me let him go, the words and what I felt as I said them. I pulled my fingers from him (slowly now, gently), and he grabbed my hand and brought it to his mouth, cleaning it though it wasn’t dirty, he was immaculate, he had cleaned himself out before I arrived. As he lay on his side gasping he said again So fucking good, not smiling now, and I thought I had satisfied him. But when he stood I saw he wasn’t satisfied, his cock was still hard as he stepped across the room and bent over to pick up the coil of my belt.

• From This Boy's Life: A Memoir (1989)

  She’d kept her pregnancy secret for as long as she could, and she was so fat to begin with that this deception came within two months of bringing her to term. Her name was Tina Flood, but everyone just called her The Flood. She was fifteen years old. The sheriff had talked to Tina, and on the basis of what she said he’d persuaded her father to hold off awhile before filing charges. Tina had said she didn’t want to charge anyone with anything, she just wanted Chuck to marry her. Mr. Flood, on the other hand, wanted to send the whole bunch of them to jail. But he must have known that this would do nothing for his daughter, and he must also have known that for Tina to marry into a family like the Bolgers would be a piece of luck wilder than anyone could have sanely imagined for her. So he had taken the sheriff’s advice. He was just waiting for Chuck to say the word. Chuck came back from the house that night and sat on his bed and told me everything. He also told me that he had no intention of marrying Tina Flood. He’d said this to the sheriff, too, said he’d spend the rest of his life in jail first. The sheriff told him not to make up his mind too fast. He would keep Mr. Flood at bay until Chuck had a chance to think about it and talk things over with his folks. But he left no doubt of the outcome if Chuck turned Tina down. He would go to prison. The charge was serious, and the case against him and the others was rock solid. Chuck said he wouldn’t do it. I told him I wouldn’t either. I encouraged him, but in my heart I was glad he was in trouble, and not just because it would take the heat off me. I was still hurt that he had deserted me in my own trouble. It did not displease me to see Chuck on the griddle now, and to have the chance to show him that I was a better friend than he had been. I would stand up for him. No one else did. Not Huff or Psycho, not even his parents. Mrs. Bolger was in too much pain even to speak to him. She wept constantly, and hardly ever left the house. Mr. Bolger’s worry for her expressed itself in implacable anger toward Chuck. He rode Chuck hard, and when he wasn’t riding him he watched him furiously, especially during meals. Dinner was the worst time of the day. No one spoke. The sounds of steel on china, of chewing and swallowing, of chairs creaking, all seemed amplified and grotesque. Chuck’s sisters bolted their food and got out of there. So did I. Chuck had to stay, and then, when everyone else was gone, get browbeaten by his father. Mr. Bolger wanted him to marry Tina Flood.

• From The Folding Star (1994)

  "Well, after that I've got to, er, I've got to do some teaching." He lay very still, and I could feel his heart beating indignantly. "Are you teaching Luc?" I pushed myself free of him and sat up. "For god's sake don't go on about that," I said. "That's all over long ago. I can't think what I ever saw in the little shit." I walked out into the main room, improvising as I went; I didn't want to watch his reactions. "He's so . . . so arrogant, and lazy, he's impossible to teach. He's got a girlfriend. I mean . . . He's not attractive, his mouth is horrible, as everyone says, it's virtually deformed ... ." My flesh was prickling and I had tears in my eyes from the confusion of play-acting and heresy. I kept myself hunched away when Cherif padded after me and hugged me from behind in his turn. When I swung into Long Street I nearly tripped on a busy little terrier that yapped in alarm and scampered aside. I looked up and there was the bearded figure of Old Gus. He came on with his glaring swagger, his stick slicing as if at grass-stalks. I stepped aside myself, and as I was just by him he halted and said amiably, "Could you spare me a few francs?" I pretended for a moment not to have heard, but then in an old muddle of principle and superstition dug my hand into my pocket and brought out all my change, quite a bit, a couple of quid, started to pick among it and then just gave it all to him. I felt an immediate certainty of worth, of providence's palm being greased and of a prompt reward, an hour of new sweetness with Luc. Old Gus pocketed the money, and stared at me with his withering eye. "Bastard!" he barked, with hatred and ferocity, smacked his stick against the pavement, turned on his heel and stamped off.