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 Momma and the Meaning of Life (1999)

  Though I was taxed by Irene’s major eruptions of grief rage, I found it even more difficult to deal with her milder but more pervasive expressions of rage. Her list of grievances about me was long and growing, and we rarely got through an hour without some expression of anger. She was angry at me for attempting to help her to detach from Jack and direct her energy elsewhere and for encouraging her to meet other men. And angry at me for not being Jack. As a result of our deep engagement, our intimate exchanges, our fighting, our mutual caring, it was with me that she most approximated the feelings she had had with her husband. And then, at the end of the hour, she hated having to go back to a life with neither me nor Jack. That’s what made the ending of every session so tumultuous. She hated the reminder that our relationship had formal boundaries, and no matter how I signaled that we were at the end of our hour, she often exploded: “You call this a real relationship? This is not real! You look at the clock and just kick me out, throw me away!” Sometimes she sat there at the end of the hour, glaring and refusing to budge. Any appeals to reason—to pointing out the necessity for schedules, to her own scheduling of patients, to suggestions that she watch the clock and end the hour, to repeating that my ending the hour was not a signal of rejection—all these fell on deaf ears. Far more often than not, she left my office angry. She was angry at me for being important to her and angry that I wouldn’t do some of the things Jack had done; for example, compliment her on all her good points—her appearance, her resourcefulness, her intelligence. We often had pitched battles about compliments. I felt that a recitation of compliments would infantilize her, but she put so much emphasis on it, was so insistent, that I often complied. I asked her what she wanted me to say and practically repeated her words back, always trying to include some original observation. Yet what seemed like a bizarre charade to me almost without fail raised her spirits. But only temporarily: she had holes in her pockets, and by the next session she insisted that I do it again. She was angry at my presuming to understand her. If I tried to combat her pessimism by reminding her that she was in the midst of a process that had a beginning and an end and by offering reassurance from some of the results of my research, she responded angrily, “You’re depersonalizing me. You’re disregarding what’s unique in my experience.” Any optimism I expressed about her recovery she invariably turned into an accusation that I wanted her to forget Jack. Any mention of the possibility of her meeting another man was a minefield.

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

  24. And she went forth, and said unto her mother, What shall I ask? And she said, The head of John the Baptist. 25. And she came in straightway with haste unto the king, and asked, saying, I will that thou give me by and by in a charger the head of John the Baptist. 26. And the king was exceeding sorry; yet for his oath’s sake, and for their sakes which sat with him, he would not reject her. 27. And immediately the king sent an executioner, and commanded his head to be brought: and he went and beheaded him in the prison, 28. And brought his head in a charger, and gave it to the damsel: and the damsel gave it to her mother. 29. And when his disciples heard of it, they came and took up his corpse, and laid it in a tomb. THEOPHYLACT. The Evangelist Mark, taking occasion from what went before, here relates the death of the Forerunner, saying, For Herod himself had sent forth and laid hold upon John, and bound him in prison for Herodias’ sake, his brother Philip’s wife: for he had married her. BEDE. (ubi sup.) Ancient history relates, that Philip, the son of Herod the great, under whom the Lord fled into Egypt, the brother of this Herod, under whom Christ suffered, married Herodias, the daughter of king Aretas; but afterwards, that his father-in-law, after certain disagreements had arisen with his son-in-law, had taken his daughter away, and, to the grief of her former husband, had given her in marriage to his enemy; therefore John the Baptist rebukes Herod and Herodias for contracting an unlawful union, and because it was not allowed for a man to marry his brother’s wife during his lifetime. THEOPHYLACT. The law also commanded a brother to marry his brother’s wife, if he died without children; but in this case there was a daughter, which made the marriage criminal: there follows, Therefore Herodias had a quarrel against him, and would have killed him; but she could not. BEDE. (ubi sup.) For Herodias was afraid, lest Herod should repent at some time, or be reconciled to his brother Philip, and so the unlawful marriage be divorced. It goes on, For Herod feared John, knowing that he was a just man, and an holy. GLOSS. (non occ.) He feared him, I say, because he revered him, for he knew him to be just in his dealings with men, and holy towards God, and he took care that Herodias should not slay him. And when he heard him, he did many things, for he thought that he spake by the Spirit of God, and heard him gladly, because he considered that what he said was profitable. THEOPHYLACT. But see how great is the fury of lust, for though Herod had such an awe and fear of John, he forgets it all, that he may minister to his fornication.

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

  PSEUDO-CHRYSOSTOM. (in fin. Hom. xxxix.) Here is the difference between good and bad men. The good man when taken in a sin has sorrow because he has sinned, the bad man is grieved not because he has sinned, but because he is found out in his sin; and he not only does not repent, but is indignant with him that reproved him. Thus they being taken in their sins were stirred up to still greater wickedness; And they sought to lay hands on him, but feared the multitude, because they took him for a Prophet. ORIGEN. One thing they know which is true concerning Him; they esteemed Him a Prophet, though not understanding His greatness in respect of His being the Son of God. But the rulers feared the multitude who thought thus of Him, and were ready to fight for Him; for they could not attain to the understanding which the multitude had, seeing they thought nothing worthy concerning Him. Further, know that there are two different kinds of desires to lay hands on Jesus. The desire of the rulers and Pharisees was one kind; another that of the Bride, I held him, and would not let him go; (Song of Sol. 3:4. ch. 7:8.) intending to try Him still further, as she saith, I will get me up into the palm tree, I will lay hold of its height. All who think not rightly concerning His divinity, seek to lay hands on Jesus in order to put Him to death. Other words indeed excepting the word of Christ it is possible to seize and to hold, but the word of truth none can seize, that is, understand; none can hold it, that is, convict; nor separate it from the conviction of those that believe; nor do it to death, that is, destroy it. PSEUDO-CHRYSOSTOM. Every wicked man also, as far as his will is concerned, lays hands on God, and puts Him to death. For whoso tramples upon God’s commandments, or murmurs against God, or raises a sullen look to heaven, would not he, if he had the power, lay hands on God, and kill Him, that he might sin without restraint? RABANUS. This, that they are afraid to lay hands on Jesus because of the multitudes, is daily acted in the Church, when any who is a brother only in name, is ashamed or afraid to assail the unity of faith and peace which he does not love, because of the good men with whom he lives. CHAPTER 22 22:1–141. And Jesus answered and spake unto them again by parables, and said, 2. The kingdom of heaven is like unto a certain king, which made a marriage for his son, 3. And sent forth his servants to call them that were bidden to the wedding: and they would not come.

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

  BEDE. (ubi sup.) But as John might be called an angel, because he went before the face of the Lord by his preaching, so he might also be rightly called a voice, because, by his sound, he preceded the Word of the Lord. Wherefore there follows, The voice of one crying, &c. For it is an acknowledged thing that the Only-Begotten Son is called the Word of the Father, and even we, from having uttered words ourselves, know that the voice sounds first, in order that the word may afterwards be heard. PSEUDO-JEROME. But it is called the voice of one crying, for we are wont to use a cry to deaf persons, and to those afar off, or when we are indignant, all which things we know applied to the Jews; for salvation is far from the wicked, and they stopped their ears like deaf adders, and deserved to hear indignation, and wrath, and tribulation from Christ. PSEUDO-CHRYSOSTOM. (Vict. Ant. e. Cat. in Marc.) But the prophecy, by saying, In the wilderness, plainly shews that the divine teaching was not in Jerusalem, but in the wilderness, which was fulfilled to the letter by John the Baptist in the wilderness of Jordan, preaching the healthful appearing of the Word of God. (non occ.). The word of prophecy also shews, that besides the wilderness, which was pointed out by Moses, where he made paths, there was another wilderness, in which it proclaimed that the salvation of Christ was present. PSEUDO-JEROME. Or else the voice and the cry is in the desert, because they were deserted by the Spirit of God, as a house empty, and swept out; deserted also by prophet, priest, and king. BEDE. (ubi sup.) What he cried is revealed, in that which is subjoined, Prepare ye the way of the Lord, make his paths straight. For whosoever preaches a right faith and good works, what else does he but prepare the way for the Lord’s coming to the hearts of His hearers, that the power of grace might penetrate these hearts, and the light of truth shine in them? And the paths he makes straight, when he forms pure thoughts in the soul by the word of preaching. PSEUDO-JEROME. Or else, Prepare ye the way of the Lord, that is, act out repentance and preach it; make his paths straight, that walking in the royal road, we may love our neighbours as ourselves, and ourselves as our neighbours. For he who loves himself, and loves not his neighbour, turns aside to the right; for many act well, and do not correct their neighbour well, as Eli. He, on the other hand, who, hating himself, loves his neighbour, turns aside to the left; for many, for instance, rebuke well, but act not well themselves, as did the Scribes and Pharisees. Paths are mentioned after the way, because moral commands are laid open after penitence.

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

  BEDE. For He had often declared Himself to be the Christ; as when he said, l and my Father are one, (John 10:30.) and other such like things. And if I also ask you, ye will not answer me. For He had asked them how they said Christ was the Son of David, whereas David in the Spirit called Him his Lord. But they wished neither to believe His words nor to answer His questions. However, because they sought to accuse falsely the seed of David, they hear something still farther; as it follows, Hereafter shall the Son of man sit on the right hand of the power of God. THEOPHYLACT. As if he said, There is no time left to you any longer for discourses and teaching, but hereafter shall be the time of judgment, when ye shall see Me, the Son of man, sitting on the right hand of the power of God. CYRIL OF ALEXANDRIA. Whenever sitting and a throne are spoken of God, His kingly and supreme majesty is signified. For we do not imagine any judgment-seat to be placed, on which we believe the Lord of all takes His seat; nor again, that in any wise right hand or left hand appertain to the Divine nature; for figure, and place, and sitting, are the properties of bodies. But how shall the Son be seen to be of equal honour and to sit together on the same throne, if He is not the Son according to nature, having in Himself the natural property of the Father? THEOPHYLACT. When then they heard this, they ought to have been afraid, but after these words they are the more frantic; as it follows, All said, &c. BEDE. They understood that He called Himself the Son of God in these words, The Son of man shall sit on the right hand of the power of God. AMBROSE. The Lord had rather prove Himself a King than call Himself one, that they might have no excuse for condemning Him, when they confess the truth of that which they lay against Him. It follows, And he said, Ye say that I am. CYRIL OF ALEXANDRIA. When Christ spoke this, the company of the Pharisees were very wroth, uttering shameful words; as it follows, Then said they, What need we any further witness? &c. THEOPHYLACT. Whereby it is manifest, that the disobedient reap no advantage, when the more secret mysteries are revealed to them, but rather incur the heavier punishment. Wherefore such things ought to be concealed from them. CHAPTER 23 23:1–51. And the whole multitude of them arose, and led him unto Pilate. 2. And they began to accuse him, saying, We found this fellow perverting the nation, and forbidding to give tribute to Cæsar, saying that he himself is Christ a King. 3. And Pilate asked him, saying, Art thou the King of the Jews? And he answered him and said, Thou sayest it.

• From In the Dream House (2019)

  Dream House as Pop Single A year before I was born, the band ’Til Tuesday, led by Aimee Mann, came out with the single “Voices Carry.” The breathy, haunting song about an abusive relationship was a top-ten hit in the United States. In the music video—which was in heavy rotation in the early days of MTV—the boyfriend is, for lack of a better word, ridiculous. A meathead in gold chains and a muscle shirt, he delivers his aggressively banal dialogue with the subtlety of an after-school special. Throughout the video, he dismantles Aimee piece by piece. At first, he compliments her music and her new hair—punky and platinum, with a rattail. Later, in a restaurant that looks like it was borrowed from a sitcom set, he removes her elaborate earpiece and replaces it with a more traditional earring before playfully chucking her under the chin. There is a shot of Mann behind a gauzy curtain, her face pressed into it with desperation, which cuts to her leaving for band practice. Here he confronts her on the steps of their brownstone; when he grabs her guitar case, she tears out of his grasp. When she returns, he scolds her for her lateness. “You know, this little hobby of yours has gone too far. Why can’t you for once do something for me?” When she speaks for the first time—“Like what?” she asks, tilting her chin upward in a challenge—he attacks her, pushing her against the stairs and forcibly kissing her. At the end of the video, they are sitting in a theater audience at Carnegie Hall. The boyfriend puts his arm around a now-polished Mann —sitting quietly, strung with pearls—before discovering her intact rattail and curling his lip in disgust. Mann begins to sing—softly at first, and then louder as she tears a stylish fascinator off her head. Then she stands up and is screaming, she is scream-singing—“He said ‘Shut up’ / He said ‘Shut up’”—and everyone is turning to look at her. This final scene, Mann said in an interview years later, was inspired by Hitchcock’s The Man Who Knew Too Much, when Doris Day’s character lets loose a bloodcurdling scream during a symphony performance, to foil an assassination. Long after the video came out, in 1999 the song’s producer revealed that the initial demo of the song had used female pronouns—in the original version, Mann was singing about a woman. “The record company was predictably unhappy with such lyrics,” he wrote, “since this was a very powerful, commercial song and they would prefer as many of its components as possible to swim in the acceptable mainstream. I wasn’t certain what to think about the pressure to change the gender of the love interest, but eventually thought that it didn’t matter any to the impact of the song itself. Would a quasi-lesbian song have had any effect on the liberation of such homosexuals, then as now several difficult steps behind the gays on the path towards broad social acceptance?

• From Post Office (1971)

  “… now there’s nothing like the smell of good clean sweat but there’s nothing worse than the smell of stale sweat …” Good god, I thought, am I hearing right? This thing is government sanctioned, surely. This big oaf is telling me to wash under the armpits. They wouldn’t do this to an engineer or a concertmaster. He’s downgrading us. “… so take a bath everyday. You will be graded upon appearance as well as production.” I think he wanted to use the word “hygienics” somewhere but it simply wasn’t in him. Then he went to the back of the lecture platform and pulled down a big map. And I mean big. It covered half the stage. A light was shone upon the map. And the big Italiano took a pointer with the little rubber nipple on the end of it like they used in grammar school and he pointed to the map: “Now, you see all this GREEN? Well, there’s a hell of a lot of it. Look!” He took the pointer and rubbed it back and forth along the green. There was quite a bit more anti-Russian feeling then than there is now. China had not yet begun to flex her muscles. Vietnam was just a little firecracker party. But I still thought, I must be crazy! I can’t be hearing right? But nobody in the audience protested. They needed jobs. And according to Joyce, I needed a job. Then he said, “Look here. That’s Alaska! And there they are! Looks almost as if they could jump across, doesn’t it?” “Yeah,” said some brainwash job in the front row. The Italiano flipped the map. It leaped crisply up into itself, crackling in war fury. Then he walked to the front of the stage, pointed his rubber-titted pointer at us. “I want you to understand that we’ve got to hold down the budget! I want you to understand that EACH LETTER YOU STICK—EACH SECOND, EACH MINUTE, EACH HOUR, EACH DAY, EACH WEEK-EACH EXTRA LETTER YOU STICK BEYOND DUTY HELPS DEFEAT THE RUSSIANS! Now, that’s all for today. Before you leave, each of you will receive your scheme assignment. “ Scheme assignment. What was that? Somebody came along handing out these sheets. “Chinaski?” he said. “Yeh?” “You have zone 9.” “Thank you,” I said. I didn’t realize what I was saying. Zone 9 was the largest station in the city. Some guys got tiny zones. It was the same as the two-foot tray in 23 minutes—they just rammed it into you. 19The next night as they moved the group from the main building to the training building, I stopped to talk to Gus the old newsboy. Gus had once been third-ranked welterweight contender but he never got a look at the champ. He swung from the left side, and, as you know, nobody ever likes to fight a lefty—you’ve got to train your boy all over again. Why bother?

• From Post Office (1971)

  I picked my cap up out of the street, put it on my head. Put the sack back onto the left side of my spine, started, out again. 100 degrees. I walked past one house and a woman ran out after me. “Mailman! Mailman! Don’t you have a letter for me?” “Lady, if I didn’t put one in your box, that means you don’t have any mail.” “But I know you have a letter for me!” “What makes you say that?” “Because my sister phoned and said she was going to write me.” “Lady, I don’t have a letter for you.” “I know you have! I know you have! I know it’s there!” She started to reach for a handful of letters. “DON’T TOUCH THE UNITED STATES MAILS, LADY! THERE’S NOTHING FOR YOU TODAY!” I turned and walked off. “I KNOW YOU HAVE MY LETTER!” Another woman stood on her porch. “ You’re late today.” “Yes, ma’am.” “Where’s the regular man today?” “He’s dying of cancer.” “Dying of cancer? Harold is dying of cancer?” “That’s right,” I said. I handed her mail to her. “BILLS! BILLS! BILLS!” she screamed. “IS THAT ALL YOU CAN BRING ME? THESE BILLS?” “Yes, ma’am, that’s all I can bring you.” I turned and walked on. It wasn’t my fault that they used telephones and gas and light and bought all their things on credit. Yet when I brought them their bills they screamed at me—as if I had asked them to have a phone installed, or a $350 t.v. set sent over with no money down. The next stop was a small two storey dwelling, fairly new, with 10 or 12 units. The lock box was in the front, under a porch roof. At last, a bit of shade. I put the key in the box and opened it. “HELLO UNCLE SAM! HOW ARE YOU TODAY?” He was loud. I hadn’t expected that man’s voice behind me. He had screamed at me, and being hungover I was nervous. I jumped in shock. It was too much. I took the key out of the box and turned. All I could see was a screen door. Somebody was back in there. Air-conditioned and invisible. “God damn you!” I said, “don’t call me Uncle Sam! I’m not Uncle Sam!” “Oh you’re one of those wise guys, eh? For two cents I’d come out and whip your ass!” I took my pouch and slammed it to the ground. Magazines and letters flew everywhere. I would have to reroute the whole swing. I took off my cap, and smashed it to the cement. “COME OUT OF THERE, YOU SON OF A BITCH! OH, GOD O MIGHTY, I BEG YOU! COME OUT OF THERE! COME OUT, COME OUT OF THERE!” I was ready to murder him. Nobody came out. There wasn’t a sound. I looked at the screen door. Nothing. It was as if the apartment were empty. For a moment I thought of going on in.

• From Post Office (1971)

  Sometimes I finish a tray in five minutes or in eight minutes. Let’s say I stick a tray in eight minutes. According to the time-tested standard I have saved the post office 15 minutes. Now can I take these 15 minutes and go down to the cafeteria, have a slice of pie with ice cream, watch t.v., and come back?” “NO! YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO GRAB A TRAY IMMEDIATELY AND START STICKING MAIL!” I signed a paper saying that I had been counseled. Then Skinny Beaver signed my travel form, wrote the time on it and sent me back to my stool to stick more mail. 3But, there were still bits of action. One guy was caught on the same stairway that I had been trapped on. He was caught there with his head under some girl’s skirt. Then one of the girls who worked in the cafeteria complained that she hadn’t been paid, as promised, for a bit of oral copulation she had supplied to a general foreman and three mailhandlers. They fired the girl and the three mailhandlers and busted the general foreman down to supervisor. Then, I set the post office on fire. I had been sent to third-class papers and was smoking a cigar, working a stack of mail off of a hand truck when some guy came by and said, “HEY, YOUR MAIL IS ON FTRE!” I looked around. There it was. A small flame was starting to stand up like a dancing snake. Evidently part of a burning cigar ash had fallen in there earlier. “Oh shit!” The flame grew rapidly. I took a catalogue and, holding it flat, I beat the shit out of it. Sparks flew. It was hot. As soon as I put out one section, another caught up. I heard a voice: “Hey! I smell fire!” “YOU DON’T SMELL FIRE,” I yelled, “YOU SMELL SMOKE!” “I think I’m going to get out of here!” “God damn you, then,” I screamed, “GET OUT!” The flames were burning my hands. I had to save the United States mail, third-class junkmail! Finally, I got it under control. I took my foot and pushed the whole pile of papers onto the floor and stepped on the last bit of red ash. The supervisor walked up to say something to me. I stood there with the burned catalogue in my hand and waited. He looked at me and walked off. Then I resumed casing the third-class junkmail. Anything burned, I put to one side. My cigar had gone out. I didn’t light it again. My hands began to hurt and I walked over to the water fountain, put them under water. It didn’t help. I found the supervisor and asked him for a travel slip to the nurse’s office. It was the same one who used to come to my door and ask me, “Now what’s the matter, Mr. Chinaski?” When I walked in, she said the same thing again.

• From Post Office (1971)

  I happened to look into the mirror to see how hungover I was and I saw him coming at me like a dart toward a dart-board. I still had the beerbottle in my hand. I swung and he walked right into it. I got him in the mouth. His whole mouth was broken teeth and blood. Hector dropped to his knees, crying, holding his mouth with both hands. I saw the stiletto. I kicked the stiletto away from him with my foot, picked it up, looked at it. Nine inches. I hit the button and the blade dropped back in. I put the thing in my pocket. Then as Hector was crying I walked up and booted him in the ass. He sprawled flat on the floor, still crying. I walked over, took a pull at his beer. Then I walked over and slapped Mary Lou. She screamed. “Cunt! You set this up, didn’t you? You’d let this monkey kill me for the lousy four or five hundred bucks in my wallet!” “No, no!” she said. She was crying. They both were crying. I slapped her again. “Is that how you make it, cunt? Killing men for a couple hundred?” “No, no, I LOVE you, Hank, I LOVE you!” I grabbed that blue dress by the neck and ripped one side of it down to her waist. She didn’t wear a brassiere. The bitch didn’t need one. I walked out of there, got outside and drove toward the track. For two or three weeks I was looking over my shoulder. I was jumpy. Nothing happened. I never saw Mary Lou at the racetrack again. Or Hector. 7Somehow the money slipped away after that and soon I left the track and sat around in my apartment waiting for the 90 day leave to run out. My nerves were raw from the drinking and the action. It’s not a new story about how women descend upon a man. You think you have space to breathe, then you look up and there’s another one. A few days after returning to work, there was another one. Fay. Fay had grey hair and always dressed in black. She said she was protesting the war. But if Fay wanted to protest the war, that was all right with me. She was a writer of some sort and went to a couple of writers’ workshops. She had ideas about Saving the World. If she could Save it for me, that would be all right too. She had been living off alimony checks from a former husband—they had had three children—and her mother also sent money now and then. Fay had not had more than one or two jobs in her life. Meanwhile Janko had a new load of bullshit. He sent me home each morning with my head aching. At the time I was getting numerous traffic citations. It seemed that everytime I looked into the rear view mirror there were the red lights.

• From Post Office (1971)

  4 Then some men came around and ripped out every other water fountain. “Hey, look, what the hell are they doing?” I asked. Nobody seemed interested. I was in the third-class flat section. I walked over to another clerk. “Look!” I said. “They are taking away our water!” He glanced at the water fountain, then went back to sticking his third-class. I tried other clerks. They showed the same disinterest. I couldn’t understand it. I asked to have my union representative paged to my area. After a long delay, here he came—Parker Anderson. Parker used to sleep in an old used car and freshen up and shave and shit at gas stations that didn’t lock their restrooms. Parker had tried to be a hustler but had failed. And had come to the central post office, joined the union, and went to the union meetings where he became sarge-at-arms. He was soon a union representative, and then he was elected vice president. “What’s the matter, Hank? I know you don’t need me to handle these soups!” “Don’t butter me, babe. Now I’ve been paying union dues for almost 12 years and haven’t asked for a damn thing.” “All right, what’s wrong?” “It’s the water fountains.” “The water fountains are wrong?” “No, god damn it, the water fountains are right. It’s what they are doing to them. Look.” “Look? Where?” “There!” “I don’t see anything.” “That’s the exact nature of my bitch. There used to be a water fountain there.” “So they took it out. What the hell?” “Look, Parker, I wouldn’t mind one. But they are yanking out every other water fountain in the building. If we don’t stop them here, they will soon be closing down every other crapper... and then, what next, I don’t know...” “All right,” said Parker, “what do you want me to do?”

• From Post Office (1971)

  2 So I took the exam, passed it, took the physical, passed it, and there I was—a substitute mail carrier. It began easy. I was sent to West Avon Station and it was just like Christmas except I didn’t get laid. Every day I expected to get laid but I didn’t. But the soup was easy and I strolled around doing a block here and there. I didn’t even have a uniform, just a cap. I wore my regular clothes. The way my shackjob Betty and I drank there was hardly money for clothes. Then I was transferred to Oakford Station. The soup was a bullneck named Jonstone. Help was needed there and I understood why. Jonstone liked to wear dark-red shirts—that meant danger and blood. There were seven subs—Tom Moto, Nick Pelligrini, Herman Stratford, Rosey Anderson, Bobby Hansen, Harold Wiley and me, Henry Chinaski. Reporting time was 5 a.m. and I was the only drunk there. I always drank until past midnight, and there we’d sit, at 5 a.m., waiting to get on the clock, waiting for some regular to call in sick. The regulars usually called in sick when it rained or during a heatwave or the day after a holiday when the mail load was doubled. There were 40 or 50 different routes, maybe more, each case was different, you were never able to learn any of them, you had to get your mail up and ready before 8 a.m. for the truck dispatches, and Jonstone would take no excuses. The subs routed their magazines on corners, went without lunch, and died in the streets. Jonstone would have us start casing the routes 30 minutes late—spinning in his chair in his red shirt—”Chinaski take route 539!” We’d start a half hour short but were still expected to get the mail up and out and be back on time. And once or twice a week, already beaten, fagged and fucked we had to make the night pickups, and the schedule on the board was impossible—the truck wouldn’t go that fast. You had to skip four or five boxes on the first run and the next time around they were stacked with mail and you stank, you ran with sweat jamming it into the sacks. I got laid all right. Jonstone saw to that.

• From Momma and the Meaning of Life (1999)

  And isn’t that the important thing?” “Perhaps you have many lives and don’t know it.” “You say you remember your other lives. We don’t. If we have new lives and don’t remember the old ones, then it still means that this life—this existing me, the consciousness that is here right now—is going to perish.” “The point! The point!” the beast growled. “Get on with it. God, how you talk and talk and talk.” “The point is that your revenge was wonderfully effective. It was good revenge. It ruined the rest of Klara’s one and only life. She lived in great misery. And her crime was only to take one of your nine lives. Her sole life for one of your nine lives. Seems to me the debt has been paid many times over. Your revenge is complete. The slate is clean. The wrong redressed.” Exultant at his persuasive formulation, Ernest leaned back in his chair. “No,” hissed Merges, glowering and thumping the floor with his powerful tail. “No, it is not complete! Not complete! The wrong has not been redressed! Revenge will go on and on! Besides, I like the way this life goes.” Ernest didn’t allow himself to flinch. He rested a moment or two, caught his second wind, and began again from another perspective. “You say you like the way your life goes now. Will you tell me about your life? What is your typical day like?” Ernest’s unruffled manner seemed to relax Merges, who stopped glowering, sat back on his haunches, and responded calmly. “My day? Uneventful. I don’t remember much of my life.” “What do you do all day?” “I wait. I wait until I am called by a dream.” “And between dreams?” “I told you. I wait.” “That’s it?” “I wait.” “And that’s your life, Merges? And are you satisfied?” Merges nodded. “When you consider the alternative,” he said as he gracefully rolled over and set to work grooming his belly. “The alternative? You mean not living?” “The ninth life is the last.” “And you want this last life to go on and on forever.” “Wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t anyone?” “Merges, I’m struck by an inconsistency in what you’re saying.” “Cats are highly logical beings. Sometimes that is not appreciated because of our ability to make lightning-quick decisions.” “Here’s the inconsistency. You say you want your ninth life to go on and on, but in fact you’re not living your ninth life. You’re merely existing in some state of suspended animation.” “Not living my ninth life?” “You said it yourself: you’re waiting. I’ll tell you what comes to my mind.

• From Cleanness (2020)

  It was a place to walk, and to do other things; there were always bottles and cans and cigarettes, people hung out there, I guess, there was nowhere else to go. Guys went there too, R. said; I didn’t know it then, we were only there in the daytime, but at night it was a cruising place, and when I got older it was where I went too, even though I hated it. It was always the same three or four married assholes, but whatever, it was something. We’d go walking there, just talking to each other, and then one day he stopped and pointed at something on the ground. It was a condom somebody had dropped by one of the walls, stretched out and dry, it was disgusting. He pointed at it with his shoe and asked me if I knew what it was for. And that’s how he started it, R. said, he put his arm around me and led me behind one of the walls where no one would see us. I didn’t want it but I let him do it, I guess, I mean I didn’t fight him and I never said anything, I let it happen. R. looked at me then, finally turning away from the glass, he looked at me where I sat immobile as he spoke, my fork still in my hand. I never said anything, he repeated, I’ve never said anything until now. Oh, I said, the single syllable, not a word but a sound, oh, and I set my fork down beside the plate I had hardly touched, that was past touching now. Skupi, I said, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, but at this his anger snapped back, a fierce anger as he said See, almost snarling it, you see me differently now, I don’t want you to be sorry for me, I don’t want to be some hurt little boy, I don’t want it. On his face there was an expression I had never seen before, on his face or any other, it was a desperate, frightened face, though frightened of what I wasn’t sure. Okay, I said, leaning back, I was frightened too, okay.

• From Cleanness (2020)

  But even that was too much; on the second day a group of men barged in, they destroyed the television, they threatened anyone who came back. I mentioned this to him, saying it was terrible, outrageous, but he waved the words away. Those assholes, he said, it was just bullshit theater, the police were there the next day but they didn’t come back. He was more upset about the Pride parade in Sofia, which had been canceled; when the city had expressed concern about security during the protests, the organizers had put out a statement that they were postponing the event as an act of solidarity, that it was a time for Sofians to stand together. Obedineni sme , they said, we’re united as Bulgarians, which is total bullshit, S. said, what kind of message is that, it says we have to choose between being gay and being Bulgarian, fuck that, it’s so fucking homophobic. He winced as an air horn blew nearby. And fuck the city, he said, they can’t just decide not to protect us. If they want to be part of the EU they have to make it safe for us to march, it’s bullshit to give them permission not to try. He gestured to the rest of the group. So we’re doing Pride anyway, he said, they should know we’re here, they shouldn’t be able to ignore us. Even so, their posterboard signs were mostly discreet, one with the words NIE SME S VAS , we’re with you, with rainbows in the corner, another with TOLERANTNOST in thick black letters against the white. Only two of them carried signs that were more demonstrative: S., whose sign read NIE PROTESTIRAME BEZ HOMOFOBIYA , we’re protesting without homophobia, and K., a woman my age from Dobrich, a small city where she worked translating technical English but spent most of her time on message boards and chat rooms, often enough on the phone, counseling gay teenagers—she called them her children—sometimes talking to them through the night. This accounted for the harried look she always wore when I saw her, the dark circles under her eyes, the heaviness with which she moved. She was admirable, everything about her spoke of sacrifice, and something in me shied away from her, I didn’t doubt the good she did but I avoided her whenever I could. S. had been one of her children, years before, and he remained devoted to her; I had heard him say that she had saved his life, that she inspired the work he did. She nodded when I walked up, but didn’t offer to shake my hand.

• From Cleanness (2020)

  There was a loud sound then from a distance, an air horn, followed by a single low drum beaten very fast, the sound of a few people making as much noise as they could. Are they still at it, I asked, and Z. nodded, A few of them, they’ll be out all night. There had been huge protests weeks before, but the heart went out of them as time passed and nothing changed, the government refused to resign and the protesters melted away until only a few dozen remained, circling the city each night as they shouted slogans. Neshtastnitsi, Z. said, assholes. Why, I asked him, what do you mean, and he shrugged. What do they think will happen, he said, nothing will change here, I don’t even think they care who’s in the government, it’s just a game. And these guys, he went on, his voice bitter now, their drums, sleeping in tents, they’re just playing a game too, it doesn’t matter, they can’t find jobs so this is how they spend their time. N. groaned. Fuck, he said, that’s going to be me in a few years, and Z. laughed. It will not, I said, reaching across to put my hand on his shoulder, leaning forward too far, I had to put my other hand on the pillar again to keep my balance. You’ll be fine, I said, looking at him, do your work and don’t be scared, that’s all, it’s all you can do. He shrugged as I removed my hand, placing it beside the other on the stone. I don’t know, he said, my mom is probably right, I don’t have any idea what I’ll do after college, I’ll probably have to come back here and be a bum. Z. laughed again, picking up the carton in a kind of toast. Job security, he said, there will always be bums, and N. groaned again.

• From Cleanness (2020)

  My voice was low now, I was speaking into his ear, You know what you are, I said, you’re a whore, this is all you’re good for, I said, this is all you deserve. Maybe they had always been there, these words, maybe once you have heard such language it infects you, that was what it felt like, like something bursting free in me, corrosive and hot, without end, I had been waiting my entire life to say those words. I lifted my head and spat on his face, twice in quick succession, saying Faggot each time, you dirty faggot, and he cried out again, his eyes clenched shut. I smeared the saliva on his face and left my hand on his head, leaning on him, forcing his face into the thin mattress, against the hard wood beneath it. Please, he said again, his voice muffled, please, I’m nothing. He repeated this, I’m nothing, I’m nothing, and I echoed him, I said That’s right, I was fucking him with my whole body, lifting up and falling back on him, you’re a faggot, I said, you’re nothing, you’re a faggot, you’re nothing. I hammered into him as I felt it rise in me, that cruelty and rage, that acid grief, and when I came I felt him come beneath me, his body shaking, I heard him give a cry of joy. I hung over him, letting him grow still, then pulled out and fell onto my back beside him. Mnogo hubavo beshe , he said, that was good, speaking Bulgarian for the first time, his face turned away. When I didn’t answer he turned toward me, then lifted himself onto his side. Hey, he said, his voice solicitous, hey. I put my hand over my face, which was wet with tears. I was embarrassed, I didn’t want him to see me, when he asked what was wrong I couldn’t answer. Stop it, he said, pulling my hand away, stop it, which made me cry harder somehow, and he kissed me, my forehead and cheeks, my lips, when I tried to pull away he grabbed my head with both his hands, holding me in place. Sladurche , he said, sweet boy, stop it now, don’t be like that, and then he licked my face, quickly, playfully, like a cat, everywhere he had kissed he licked, catching my hands in his when I tried to shield myself or push him away, until I was laughing and weeping both, I stopped struggling and let him lick my face. He laughed too, rolling on top of me, still licking me, and I realized that I had been wrong before; it did have an end, what I had felt, its end was here, he had brought me here. Finally he laid his head on my chest. Don’t be like that, he said again as I put my arms around him. Do you see? You don’t have to be like that, he said.

• From Cleanness (2020)

  But even that was too much; on the second day a group of men barged in, they destroyed the television, they threatened anyone who came back. I mentioned this to him, saying it was terrible, outrageous, but he waved the words away. Those assholes, he said, it was just bullshit theater, the police were there the next day but they didn’t come back. He was more upset about the Pride parade in Sofia, which had been canceled; when the city had expressed concern about security during the protests, the organizers had put out a statement that they were postponing the event as an act of solidarity, that it was a time for Sofians to stand together. Obedineni sme , they said, we’re united as Bulgarians, which is total bullshit, S. said, what kind of message is that, it says we have to choose between being gay and being Bulgarian, fuck that, it’s so fucking homophobic. He winced as an air horn blew nearby. And fuck the city, he said, they can’t just decide not to protect us. If they want to be part of the EU they have to make it safe for us to march, it’s bullshit to give them permission not to try. He gestured to the rest of the group. So we’re doing Pride anyway, he said, they should know we’re here, they shouldn’t be able to ignore us. Even so, their posterboard signs were mostly discreet, one with the words NIE SME S VAS , we’re with you, with rainbows in the corner, another with TOLERANTNOST in thick black letters against the white. Only two of them carried signs that were more demonstrative: S., whose sign read NIE PROTESTIRAME BEZ HOMOFOBIYA , we’re protesting without homophobia, and K., a woman my age from Dobrich, a small city where she worked translating technical English but spent most of her time on message boards and chat rooms, often enough on the phone, counseling gay teenagers—she called them her children—sometimes talking to them through the night. This accounted for the harried look she always wore when I saw her, the dark circles under her eyes, the heaviness with which she moved. She was admirable, everything about her spoke of sacrifice, and something in me shied away from her, I didn’t doubt the good she did but I avoided her whenever I could. S. had been one of her children, years before, and he remained devoted to her; I had heard him say that she had saved his life, that she inspired the work he did. She nodded when I walked up, but didn’t offer to shake my hand.

• From Cleanness (2020)

  I’m so happy I saw you, she said, it was so great to do this, and then she was gone. Other people were leaving too, streaming down into the metro or dispersing on foot, the march was thinning out. Those of us who stayed turned onto Tsar Osvoboditel again, beginning the last leg of the protest, bringing us back full circle. There were still people yelling cherveni boklutsi but not many, most people were walking quietly, chatting among themselves. I would follow the march to the end, I had booked a hotel room for the night, in the luxury hotel near the statue of the tsar; after the embassy warnings travelers were staying in hotels far from the protests, the rooms were cheap enough for me to afford. I would spend the night there and take the metro to campus in the morning. I glanced at my phone and saw that D. was already waiting for me to join him for a drink at the bar. He was right, D. had texted, meaning the writer I had met and the argument they had had, what’s happening is better than I thought, I can’t wait to talk to you, hurry up. We were still a few blocks away but a new chant had started up, utre pak , tomorrow again, it gave people fresh energy, everyone was chanting it, pumping their fists in the air. Even I joined in, utre pak , I wanted to see what it was like to chant with the others, but soon I felt foolish and stopped. There are grassy areas along that part of the boulevard, little gardens set back from the lights of the street, and so I didn’t see S. and his friends at first, they were gathered some distance from the pavement. A woman was standing and waving her arms above her head, that was what caught my attention, and as I approached I saw that S. was sitting on the ground, leaning into K., who had both her arms around him, and that he was holding something to his face. They had piled their signs in the grass beside them, what was left of their signs, they had all been torn to pieces. What happened, I asked the woman who had waved me over, and she answered in English, Some assholes showed up, she said, some of those assholes in masks, they grabbed our signs from us, and they hit S., she went on, when he tried to stop them they knocked him down. All these police and none of them did anything, she said, they’re assholes too, when we went to find them they said they would send someone but that was twenty minutes ago. They don’t care what happened to us, we’ve been calling them but they just keep telling us to wait.

• From Reading the Bible from the Margins (2002)

  Power Not to See a Need to Repent When the wife in the above dialogue attempted to explain how her husband's actions caused her pain, he really did not want to hear it. He sought forgiveness for whatever she perceived was his transgression. Frankly, he didn't think he had done anything wrong. Like former police chief Darly Gates, he blamed the victim for her misfortune. As mentioned, through the power of labeling, he reduced his wife's concerns, dismissing anything of value that she had to say. Consequently, there was no real need for him to repent. Nevertheless, he probably thought he would apologize so as to appease her and allow them to simply move on. Yet, as the dialogue indicates, his wife refused forgiveness; she sought reconciliation instead, a painful process that can lead to healing. My unwillingness to forgive the dominant culture for its racial and ethnic abuses is based on the biblical mandate to become one body in Christ, whose prerequisites include salvation (liberation) and reconciliation. Yet the major obstacle to reconciliation is the dominant culture's refusal even to see a need to repent. While people on the margins have always recognized the reality of police brutality—and long before Rodney King's beating was captured on tape—even the videotape proved to be insufficient for bringing about change. Reports continue to tell of an unarmed African in New York being shot over forty times by police, or a Latino man in Philadelphia having his head crushed while in the backseat of a police cruiser, or a Haitian immigrant in New York having a toilet plunger inserted in his rectum while under arrest at the police station, or drug squad officers in Pittsburgh planting evidence on suspects and falsified reports; and the list goes on. On October 6, 1998, Amnesty International released a 153-page report accusing the United States of systematically violating the human rights of its citizens, specifically its citizens of color. The violations include mistreatment of prisoners, excessive use of police force, detention of asylum seekers, execution of children, and the providing of arms and training to repressive regimes. Amnesty's secretary-general, Pierre Sané, in his report to the United Nations said, “Human rights violations in the United States of America are persistent, widespread, and appear to disproportionately affect people of racial or ethnic minority backgrounds.”2 In spite of these accusations, the dominant culture is offended that the world community would level such charges against a political system that sees itself as the bedrock of truth, justice, and the “American way.” After all, it is the United States, the self-proclaimed lighthouse of liberty to a darkened world, that is the moral conscience of the world, quick to point out the human-rights violations that occur specifically in those nations that are not our allies. Yet, when the earth's marginalized question the integrity of the United States, we are incredulous. We usually respond by withholding payments to the United Nations to teach them not to question our “righteous” motives.