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 How to Deal with Angry People (2023)

  All-or-nothing thinking is when people categorize things as all bad or all good . They take a situation or an idea and label or define it as being a particular way, failing to account for the nuance within that situation or idea. As I’m writing this, for example, it’s pouring down with rain outside and will likely continue for the next few hours. I could define this as terrible or disappointing because it’s going to ruin my run later and keep my kids from being able to play outside. In doing so, though, I would be ignoring the fact that the rain is feeding my garden that desperately needs the water (not to mention the crops of local farmers). The rain isn’t inherently bad. It’s just a thing that’s happening and has both positive and negative influences on my life and the broader community. This sort of thinking happens in describing people too. Instead of recognizing human beings as having complex motivations, angry people might label others as cruel , stupid , or dishonest. Those labels become the lens by which they interpret their behavior. When a person who has been labeled dishonest tries to explain themselves, it is assumed to be a lie. When a person who has been labeled stupid offers a solution to a problem, it is ignored. Once again, we’ve been able to identify a variety of thought types that fall into this all-or-nothing category. Here are a few examples of the thoughts we might see from angry people, including examples of how those thoughts might lead to anger: Overgeneralizing: This is the tendency to broaden experiences out into a much bigger pattern. When a thing happens, they might describe it as always happening instead of thinking of it as a single incident. For instance, when a child forgets to do their homework, the angry parent might say, “Why does he always do that?” or even “He is completely irresponsible.”Inflammatory labeling: This is when they label people or situations in highly negative or even cruel ways. They describe situations as completely terrible or disastrous. They describe people as total idiots, fools, or worthless. In doing so, they fail to realize that people are more complicated than they realize and that their motivations for doing something in a particular moment are similarly complicated.Differing versions of fairness: Some people evaluate outcomes in terms of fairness, but not in a way that is consistent with how others view fairness. Anger emerges because they feel injustice that others don’t necessarily see or agree with.

• From How to Deal with Angry People (2023)

  On the one hand, “ghosting” appears very common and some see it as a reasonable way to end relationships, particularly if those relationships were unhealthy. At the same time, essays on how to deal with ghosting are actively hostile to the “ghosts,” routinely describing them as immature or even too unskilled to communicate directly. The ghosts themselves were not available to respond. CHAPTER 12 STRATEGY SEVEN: STEP AWAY FROM ONLINE RAGE The “Non-Ignorable Role” of Anger Online In 2014 Rui Fan and colleagues set out to discover the online contagiousness of particular emotions.62 They wanted to know which emotions spread most quickly across social media. Using Weibo, a Chinese platform they described as similar to Twitter, they captured approximately 70 million posts from 278,654 users. They coded the emotionality of these posts (based on emoticon usage, caps, and other factors) into four categories: disgust, sadness, joy, and anger. They then looked to see which posts were most likely to be liked or shared by others. What they found was fascinating, though, not necessarily surprising to anyone who has spent considerable time online over the past decade. People didn’t typically share posts associated with disgust or sadness, at least not compared with their sharing of joyful or angry posts. They did share joyful posts, when they were connected to the person who shared the original post. They shared angry posts, though, whether they were connected to the person or not. In other words, people joined in the joy of others when they knew them, but joined in the anger whether they knew them or not. This led the authors to write “we conjecture that anger plays a non-ignorable role in massive propagations of the negative news about the society.”* How Online Emotions Are Similar/Different What the study above really shows is something most of you have already noticed, that anger is omnipresent online. You likely encounter angry people in your online interactions a couple of times a week to a couple of times per day. Maybe they are people you know and are interacting with via email, text, or Messenger, or maybe they are strangers you encounter on social media and will never connect with again. What’s fascinating, though, is that even though the consequences of an online argument with a stranger may be different than such an argument with a friend, the causes of such anger are very similar. There are relatively simple explanations for why we encounter angry people online as often as we do, and it’s because social media and electronic forms of communication like email and texting have changed how we experience and express our emotions in significant ways.

• From Another Country (1962)

  She looked at him wearily, with mockery and pity. “Oh, Vivaldo,” she said, “what a busy little mind you’ve got.” Then her manner changed, and she said, very coldly, “You don’t really have the right, you know, to worry about who I talk to. And what you’re suggesting doesn’t flatter me at all.” She kept her voice low, but it had begun to shake. “Maybe, now, I’ll behave like what you think I am!” She walked over to the bar and stepped between Richard and Ellis. She was smiling. Ellis put one hand on her elbow and his face changed as he spoke to her, becoming greedier and more vulnerable. Richard went behind the bar to pour Ida a drink. Vivaldo could have joined them, but he did not dare. Her outburst had come so mysteriously, and with such speed, that he was afraid to think of what might happen if he walked over to the bar. And she was right; he was wrong. Who she talked to was none of his business. But her reaction had been so swift and terrible! Now, his advantage was gone. His patiently amassed and hoarded capital—of understanding and gallantry—had vanished in the twinkling of an eye. “I’d like you to meet Sydney Ingram. This is Vivaldo Moore.” Cass was at his shoulder, presenting the newcomer, of whose arrival he had been vaguely aware. He had come alone. Vivaldo recognized his name because the boy’s first novel had just been published and he wanted to read it. He was tall, nearly as tall as Vivaldo, with a pleasant, heavy-featured face and a great deal of black hair and, like Vivaldo, was dressed in a dark suit, probably his best one. “I’m delighted to meet you,” Vivaldo said—sincerely, for the first time that evening. “I’ve read his novel,” Cass said, “it’s wonderful, you must read it.” “I want to,” said Vivaldo. Ingram smiled, looking uncomfortable, and stared into his glass as though he wished he could drown in it. “I’ve circulated enough for the time being,” Cass said. “Let me stay with you two for a while.” She led them slowly toward the big window. It was twilight, the sun was gone, soon the street lamps would be turned on. “Somehow, I don’t think I’m cut out to be a literary hostess.” “You looked fine to me,” said Vivaldo. “You weren’t trying to keep up a conversation with me. My attention just keeps wandering, I can’t help it. I might as well be in a room full of physicists.” “What are they talking about over at the bar?” Vivaldo asked. “Steve Ellis’s responsibility to the televiewers of America,” Ingram said. They laughed. “Don’t laugh,” said Ingram, “he, too, can become President. At least, he can read and write.” “I should think,” said Cass, “that that would disqualify him.”

• From Another Country (1962)

  “Now, the extent of the business,” Ellis said, looking from Ida to Vivaldo, “is very simple. I’ve helped other people and I think I can help Miss Scott.” He looked at Ida. “You aren’t ready yet. You’ve got a hell of a lot of work to do and a hell of a lot to learn. And I’d like you to drop by my office one afternoon this week so we can go into all this in detail. You’ve got to study and work and you’ve got to keep alive while you’re doing all that and maybe I can help you work that out.” Then he looked at Vivaldo. “And you can come, too, if you think I’m trying to exploit Miss Scott unfairly. Is it your intention to act as her agent?” “No.” “You don’t have any reason to distrust me; you just don’t like me, is that it?” “Yes,” said Vivaldo after a moment, “I guess that’s right.” “Oh, Vivaldo,” Ida moaned. “That’s all right. It’s always good to know where you stand. But you certainly aren’t going to allow this—prejudice—to stand in Miss Scott’s way?” “I wouldn’t dream of it. Anyway, Ida does what she wants.” Ellis considered him. He looked briefly at Ida. “Well. That’s reassuring.” He signaled for the waiter and turned to Ida. “What day shall we make it? Tuesday, Wednesday?” “Wednesday might be better,” she said, hesitantly. “Around three o’clock?” “Yes. That’s fine.” “It’s settled, then.” He made a note in his engagement book, then took out his billfold, picked up the check and gave a ten-dollar bill to the waiter. “Give these people anything they want,” he said, “it’s on me.” “Oh, are you going now?” asked Ida. “Yes. My wife will kill me if I don’t get home in time to see the kids before I go to the studio. See you Wednesday.” He held out his hand to Eric. “Glad to have met you, Red; all the best. Maybe you’ll do a show for me, one day.” He looked down at Vivaldo. “So long, genius. I’m sorry you don’t like me. Maybe one of these days you ought to ask yourself why. It’s no good blaming me, you know, if you don’t know how to get or how to hold on to what you want.” Then he turned and left. Vivaldo watched the short legs going up the stairs into the street. He wiped his forehead with his wet handkerchief and the three of them sat in silence for a moment. Then, “I’m going to call Cass,” Vivaldo said, and rose and walked toward the phone booth in the back. “I understand,” said Ida, carefully, “that you were a very good friend of my brother’s.” “Yes,” he said, “I was. Or at least I tried to be.” “Did you find it so very hard—to be his friend?”

• From Another Country (1962)

  A French movie in which Eric played a bit part came to New York that summer and the four of them made an appointment to go and see it. Ida and Vivaldo were to meet Eric and Cass at the box office. “What does she think she’s doing?” Ida asked. She and Vivaldo were walking toward the theater through the July streets. “She’s trying to live,” said Vivaldo, mildly. “Oh, shit, baby, Cass is a grown woman with two kids. What about those kids? Eric’s not the fatherly type, at least not with boys that age.” “What a filthy little moralist you are. What Cass does with Cass’s life is her business. Not yours. Maybe she knows more about those kids than you do; maybe she’s trying to live the way she thinks she ought to live so that they won’t be afraid to do it when their time comes.” He felt himself beginning to be angry. “And you don’t know enough about Eric to talk about him that way.” “Those kids are going to hate her before it’s over, believe me. And don’t tell me I don’t know about Eric; I knew all about him the minute I laid eyes on him.” “You knew what you’d heard. And you’d never heard that he was going to have an affair with Cass. So you’re bugged.” “Eric may have you fooled, and he may have Cass fooled—of course, I think she’s just fooling herself—but I’m not fooled. You’ll see.” “You’re not a singer at all, you’re a fortune-teller. We should get you some big brass earrings and a vivid turban and set you up in business.” “Laugh, clown,” she said. “Well, what do you care? If he wants to make it with her and she wants to make it with him, what do we care?” “Don’t you care? Richard’s your friend.” “Cass is more my friend than Richard,” he said. “She can’t realize what she’s doing. She’s got a good man and he’s really starting to get someplace, and she can’t find anything better to do than start screwing some poor-white faggot from Alabama. I swear, I don’t understand white folks worth a damn.” “Eric’s not poor-white; his family’s very well off,” he said, beginning to sweat with more than the heat, wishing her voice would cease. “Well, I hope they haven’t disowned him. Do you think Eric’s ever going to make it as an actor?” “I don’t see what that has to do with anything. But, yes, I do, he’s a very good actor.” “He’s getting kind of old to be so unknown. What was he doing in Paris all that time?” “I don’t know, baby, but I hope he was having a ball. You know? Like whatever he digs most, that’s what I hope he was doing.” “Well,” she said, “that isn’t what he’s doing now.”

• From How to Deal with Angry People (2023)

  Exercise improves mood and helps people manage their anxiety. But that doesn’t mean you should exercise during an emotional episode or as a way to calm down from an emotional episode. When you are in the midst of an emotional experience (such as anger, fear, even intense sadness), exercise can exacerbate those negative feelings through something called excitation transfer. Excitation transfer is the finding that emotions are intensified by arousal not associated with them. Essentially, the excitation (elevated heart rate, increased breathing) from one experience transfers to another experience, so if you’re angry, and you go for a run, your heart rate will increase because of the run, but your brain will think it’s because you’re angry. Researchers have known this for the past 50 years, ever since Dr. Dolf Zillmann and colleagues did the 1972 study, “Excitation transfer from physical exercise to subsequent aggressive behavior.”53 Like almost every study on anger and aggression from the 1970s, they provoked their participants first to get them good and mad. Then participants were randomly assigned to either ride an exercise bike or engage in a mundane task.* When they were done, they got to respond to the person who provoked them. If exercise were effective in reducing anger, they would be less aggressive after riding the bike. But they weren’t, they were more aggressive. These findings, though, haven’t necessarily moved the needle on therapists’ recommendations to people when angry. A quick internet search of “how do I calm down when I’m angry?” yields pages of results advocating punching bags, rage rooms, and exercise. Meanwhile, I routinely talk with people who tell me their therapists encourage them to work out when they get mad or to have their children punch a pillow when they are angry. For whatever reason, we haven’t been able to effectively get the word out on the harm that can come from catharsis. Shortening That 20 Minutes So if a lot of people’s go-to for calming down, catharsis/exercise, isn’t good for them, what does work? What are some ways that people can stay calm in these emotionally charged situations? Make it a Core Value Most important, you need to embrace the desire to stay calm in these situations as an intentional life strategy. It is exceedingly difficult in the moment to decide you want to stay calm. Everything about the situation is screaming for you to emote, so deciding not to in the midst of the actual situation is nearly impossible. For this reason, you should make the decision to stay calm in advance of the situation.

• From Another Country (1962)

  Okay, Rufus, behave yourself. And he leaned back in the booth, where he sat facing Jane and Vivaldo. He had reached her, and she struck back with the only weapon she had, a shapeless instrument which might once have been fury. “It doesn’t smell any worse in here than it does where you come from, baby.” Vivaldo and Rufus looked at each other. Vivaldo’s lips turned white. He said, “You say another word, baby, and I’m going to knock your teeth, both of them, right down your throat.” This profoundly delighted her. She became Bette Davis at once, and shouted at the top of her voice, “Are you threatening me?” Everyone turned to look at them. “Oh, shit,” said Rufus, “let’s go.” “Yes,” said Vivaldo, “let’s get out of here.” He looked at Jane. “Move. You filthy bitch.” And now she was contrite. She leaned forward and grabbed Rufus’ hand. “I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.” He tried to pull his hand away; she held on. He relaxed, not wanting to seem to struggle with her. Now she was being Joan Fontaine. “Please, you must believe me, Rufus!” “I believe you,” he said, and rose; to find a heavy Irishman standing in his way. They stared at each other for a moment and then the man spit in his face. He heard Jane scream, but he was already far away. He struck, or thought he struck; a fist slammed into his face and something hit him at the back of the head. The world, the air, went red and black, then roared in at him with faces and fists. The small of his back slammed against something cold, hard, and straight; he supposed it was the end of the bar, and he wondered how he had got there. From far away, he saw a barstool poised above Vivaldo’s head, and he heard Jane screaming, keening like all of Ireland. He had not known there were so many men in the bar. He struck a face, he felt bone beneath the bone of his fist, and weak green eyes, glaring into his like headlights at the moment of collision, shuttered in distress. Someone had reached him in the belly, someone else in the head. He was being spun about and he could no longer strike, he could only defend. He kept his head down, bobbing and shifting, pushed and pulled, and he crouched, trying to protect his private parts. He heard the crash of glass. For an instant he saw Vivaldo, at the far end of the bar, blood streaming down from his nose and his forehead, surrounded by three or four men, and he saw the back of a hand send Jane spinning half across the room. Her face was white and terrified. Good , he thought, and felt himself in the air, going over the bar. Glass crashed again, and wood was splintered.

• From Every Woman's Battle: Discovering God's Plan for Sexual and Emotional Fulfillment (2003)

  When I was younger I used to get catcalls when I walked through the mall or through a parking lot. Now I never get any disrespect like that. When I first noticed this, I thought I must not be as attractive now that I am getting older. But I have since realized that I don’t get the inappropriate attention simply because I started dressing more modestly and presenting myself like a woman on a mission from God rather than a woman on a mission to land a man. Penny, age 32: I used to walk around the house without much on because I was comfortable that way. I felt it was my right in the privacy of my own home. I never really thought about it until my six-year-old son brought a friend home after school one day. Bradley stopped his playmate at the door and I overheard him say, “Hold on and let me make sure my mom has some clothes on! Sometimes she doesn’t.” I’ve made it a point since then to wear something more than just underwear around the house. I don’t want my children to have to explain their mother’s lack of modesty! Elizabeth, age 38: At work my ideas would be discounted and I was passed over time after time for a promotion. It made me furious and frustrated. Then I got a revelation that if I dressed less “seductive-professional” and more “modest-professional,” they might actually think I’m more than just a pretty face to decorate the office. It took awhile to gradually replace my wardrobe, but the more conservatively I dress, the more respect and appreciation I seem to get, not just from the men, but from the women as well as the clients and vendors who come into our office. I don’t get propositioned when traveling nearly as much anymore either, which is good. I’d rather have the respect than the attention. While the Bible doesn’t specifically state how long a skirt should be or what sections of skin should always be covered, we can always go back to Jesus’ commandment as a guideline for how we are to dress: Love your neighbor as yourself. Picture this scenario: You know that your neighbor is dieting to lose ten pounds before her wedding. You also know that, if she does not lose the weight, her dress will be too tight and she will feel uncomfortable on her big day. But you are a gourmet dessert chef and you crave the affirmation that you are a good cook, so you insist that your neighbor eat the pound cake and fudge and coconut cream pie samples that you bring over to her house every day. Are you acting lovingly or selfishly toward your neighbor?

• From Real Life (2020)

  Je suis là maintenant. » Il semble tellement fatigué, d’une fatigue inconcevable. Alors pourquoi cette question sur le loup, sur les cochons ? Pourquoi se donner tout ce mal ? Wallace pose les mains sur les bras de Miller, les caresse lentement, tendrement. « Moi je ne m’en fous pas, fait Wallace, sachant qu’il se dévoile trop. J’aimerais bien savoir ce qui est arrivé – savoir si tu vas bien, en fait. — C’est vrai ? — Oui. » Il n’y a pas de réponse. Wallace attend quelque chose, n’importe quoi, mais seule se fait entendre leur respiration tranquille. « Ça n’avait pas l’air de t’intéresser tellement, fait enfin Miller. On aurait dit que tu t’en fichais comme de ta première chemise, de si j’allais bien ou pas. — Qu’est-ce que tu racontes, Miller ? De quoi tu parles ? — Tout à l’heure, après le brunch. Et même hier soir, en un sens, quand tu es parti. Je te raconte tous ces trucs sur moi, et toi tu te tires en pleine nuit. Déjà avant le dîner, tu me l’avais dit, que ça ne t’intéressait pas. J’aurais mieux fait de t’écouter. Pourquoi je t’ai pas écouté ? — Quel rapport avec ce qui se passe ? Ou ton état lamentable maintenant ? — Quelle question ! », s’exclame Miller, légèrement interloqué. Il rit. « Mais quelle question, putain. » Il retire ses bras des épaules de Wallace, le pousse doucement dans le dos pour faire de l’espace entre eux. À contrecœur, Wallace fait un pas en avant et se retourne. Il se sent piqué au vif, comme si une meurtrissure s’assombrissait quelque part au fond de lui. Il a le sentiment que le simple fait de demander à Miller ce qu’il veut dire prouve quelque chose sur lui-même qu’il ne peut encore appréhender. La lumière de la ruelle baigne Miller d’une lueur bleu sale. On ne distingue de ses yeux que leur blanc luisant. Ses traits sont distordus par l’ombre ou la colère, ou les deux. Il est effrayant, malgré ses dents parfaites qui luisent dans le noir. « Qu’est-ce que je t’ai fait ? — Tu m’as mis la tête à l’envers, dit Miller. Tu m’as percé à jour et ça m’a foutu en l’air. Je raconte jamais cette histoire à personne. J’ai jamais laissé personne connaître cette partie de moi. Mais à toi, je t’ai raconté. Et tu es parti. — Je suis désolé. J’avais le sentiment qu’il allait se passer un truc affreux si je restais. — Un truc affreux », répète Miller, plus fort ; sa voix monte dans les aigus, s’aiguise, se brise. « Tu croyais que j’allais te faire un truc affreux ? Qu’est-ce que tu voulais que je te fasse, bordel, Wallace ? — Non, c’est pas ça. Non, j’ai juste eu le pressentiment qu’une chose terrible nous guettait. Je ne sais pas. Je suis désolé. — Tu es désolé. Tu es tout le temps désolé, pas vrai, Wallace ?

• From Another Country (1962)

  “Why didn’t you stop it, Ida? You could have stopped it, you didn’t have to go on with it.” “Stop it and go where? Stop it and do what? No, I thought to myself, Well, you’re in it now, girl, close your eyes and grit your teeth and get through it. It’ll be worth it when it’s over. And that’s why I’ve been working so hard. To get away.” “And what about me? What about us?” She looked up at him with a bitter smile. “What about us? I hoped I’d get through this and then we’d see. But last night something happened, I couldn’t take it any more. We were up at Small’s Paradise——” “Last night? You and Ellis?” “Yes. And Cass.” “Cass?” “I asked her to come and have a drink with me.” “Did you leave together?” “No.” “So that’s why she got in late last night.” He looked at her. “It’s a good thing I didn’t come home then, isn’t it?” “What would you have done,” she cried, “if you had? You’d have sat at that typewriter for a while and then you’d have played some music and then you’d have gone out and got drunk. And when I came home, no matter when I came home, you’d have believed any lie I told you because you were afraid not to.” “What a bitch you are,” he said.

• From Henry Miller on Writing (1964)

  If we want to lead a creative life it is absolutely just that we should be responsible for our own destiny. To imagine a way of life that could be patched is to think of the cosmos as a vast plumbing affair. To expect others to do what we are unable to do ourselves is truly to believe in miracles, miracles that no Christ would dream of performing. The whole social-political scheme of existence is crazy—because it is based on vicarious living. A real man has no need of governments, of laws, of moral or ethical codes, to say nothing of battleships, police clubs, high-powered bombers and such things. Of course a real man is hard to find, but that’s the only kind of man worth talking about. Why talk about trash? It is the great mass of mankind, the mob, the people, who create the permanently bad times. The world is only the mirror of ourselves. If it’s something to make one puke, why then puke, me lads, it’s your own sick mugs you’re looking at! Sometimes it almost seems that the writer takes a perverse delight in finding the times out of joint, finding everything awrack and awry. Perhaps the artist is nothing more than the personification of this universal maladjustment, this universal disequilibrium. Perhaps that explains why in the neutral, sterilized countries (Scandinavia, Holland, Switzerland), so little art is forthcoming, or why in the countries undergoing profound social and political changes (Russia, Germany, Italy), the art products are of negligible value. But, whether there is little art or bad art, art, it should be understood, is only a makeshift, a substitute for the real thing. There is only one art which, if we practiced it, would destroy what is called “art.” With every line I write I kill off the “artist” in me. With every line it is either murder in the first degree or suicide. I do not want to give hope to others, nor to inspire others. If we knew what it meant to be inspired we would not inspire. We would simply be . As it is we neither inspire nor aid one another: we deal out cold justice. For myself I want none of this stinking cold justice; I want either warm-hearted magnanimity or absolute neglect. To be honest, I want something more than any man can give me. I want everything! I want everything—or nothing. It’s crazy, I know, but that’s what I mean. Is it good here in France? It’s wonderful. Marvelous. For me it’s marvelous, because it’s the only place in the world I know of where I can go on with my murder-and-suicide business—until I strike a new zodiacal realm. For a French writer it may be bad here, but then I am not a French writer. I should hate to be a French or a German or a Russian or an American writer.

• From Another Country (1962)

  There was a great question in Eric’s eyes and Vivaldo turned away as though he were turning from a mirror and walked to the kitchen door. “You really think it makes no difference?” “I don’t know. Does the difference make any difference? ” “Well,” said Vivaldo, tapping with his thumbnail against the hinges of the door, “I certainly think that the real ball game is between men and women. And it’s physically easier.” He looked quickly at Eric. “Isn’t it? And then,” he added, “there are children.” And he looked quickly at Eric again. Eric laughed. “I never heard of two cats who wanted to make it failing because they were the wrong size. Love always finds a way, dad. I don’t know anything about baseball, so I don’t know if life’s a baseball game or not. Maybe it is for you. It isn’t for me. And if it’s children you’re after, well, you can do that in five minutes and you haven’t got to love anybody to do it. If all the children who get here every year were brought here by love, wow! baby, what a bright world this would be !” And now Vivaldo felt, at the very bottom of his heart, a certain reluctant hatred rising, against which he struggled as he would have struggled against vomiting. “I can’t decide,” he said, “whether you want to make everybody as miserable as you are, or whether everybody is as miserable as you are.” “Well, don’t put it that way, baby. How happy are you? That’s got nothing to do with me, nothing to do with how I live, or what I think, or how miserable I am—how are you making it?” The question hung in the room, like the smoke which wavered between Eric and Vivaldo. The question was as thick as the silence in which Vivaldo looked down, away from Eric, searching his heart for an answer. He was frightened; he looked up at Eric; Eric was frightened, too. They watched each other. “I’m in love with Ida,” Vivaldo said. Then, “And sometimes we make it, beautifully, beautifully. And sometimes we don’t. And it’s hideous.” And he remained where he was, in the doorway, still. “I, too, am in love,” said Eric, “his name is Yves; he’s coming to New York very soon. I got a letter from him today.” He stood up and walked to his desk, picked up the play and opened it and took out an airmail envelope. Vivaldo watched his face, which had become, in an instant, weary and transfigured. Eric opened the letter and read it again. He looked at Vivaldo. “Sometimes we make it, too, and it’s beautiful. And when we don’t, it’s hideous.” He sat down again. “When I was talking before about accepting or deciding, I was thinking about him.” He paused, and threw his letter on the bed.

• From Another Country (1962)

  Somehow, she bore it; but not without another girlish twitch. She said, “Vivaldo’s got a great chick.” She turned to Dick Lincoln. “I bet you think you’re a liberal,” she said, “but this boy, baby, he’s miles ahead of you. He’s miles ahead of me ; why, if I was as liberal as my friend, Vivaldo, here”—she laughed; a very tall Negro boy passed them, looking at them briefly—“why, I wouldn’t be with you , you poor white slob. I’d be with the biggest, blackest buck I could find!” Vivaldo felt his skin prickling, Dick Lincoln blushed. Jane laughed, and Vivaldo realized that others, both black and white, were watching them. “Maybe I should have gone with her brother,” Jane said, “would you have liked me better if I had? Or were you going with him , too? Can’t ever tell about a liberal,” and she turned her face, laughing, into Dick Lincoln’s shoulder. Lincoln stared helplessly into Vivaldo’s eyes. “She’s all yours, mister,” Vivaldo said, and at this Jane looked up at him, not laughing at all, her face livid, and old with rage. And all his anger left him at once. “So long,” he said, and turned away. He wanted to leave before Jane precipitated a race riot. And he also realized that he had become the focus of two very different kinds of attention. The blacks now suspected him of being an ally—though not a friend, never a friend!—and the whites, particularly the neighborhood Italians, now knew that he could not be trusted. “Hurry home,” Jane called behind him, “hurry home! Is it true that they’ve got hotter blood than ours? Is her blood hotter than mine?” And laughter rang down the street behind this call, the suppressed, bawdy laughter of the Italians—for, after all, Vivaldo was one of them, and a male, and apparently, a gifted one—and the delighted, vindictive laughter of the Negroes. For a moment, behind him, they were almost united—but then, each, hearing the other’s laughter, choked their laughter off. The Italians heard the laughter of black men; the black men remembered that it was a black girl Vivaldo was screwing. He crossed the Avenue. He wanted to go home and he wanted to eat and he wanted to get drunk and, also, perhaps out of simple fury, he wanted to get laid—but he did not feel that anything good would happen to him tonight. And he felt that if he were a real writer, he would simply go home and work and throw everything else out of his mind, as Balzac had done and Proust and Joyce and James and Faulkner. But perhaps they had never held in their minds the nameless things he held in his. He felt a very peculiar, a deadly resignation: he knew that he would not go home until it was too late for him to go anywhere else, or until Ida answered the phone.

• From Real Life (2020)

  Est-ce qu’il gardait l’œil ouvert au cas où une opportunité se présenterait dans la nuit ? Il y a un coin de drague près du lac, un flanc de colline couvert d’arbres touffus. La nuit, il suffit de se laisser happer par l’obscurité du chemin de jogging sans éclairage. On marche, on marche sur la terre meuble jusqu’à heurter un corps dur et ferme, un autre homme, qui cherche quelque chose dans le noir. Une balle dérape sur la ligne de côté ; Wallace la cueille juste après le rebond et la renvoie sur le coup droit de Cole. Cole devrait la croiser, mais il ne le fera pas. Wallace le voit à la façon dont il prend son élan, abaissant un peu sa raquette derrière lui. Il va la cogner tout droit en visant un point gagnant sur la ligne. Effectivement, Cole prend la balle bien en face, bas, et l’expédie dans le couloir. S’il y a un truc qu’il n’aime pas chez Cole, c’est son tennis erratique : même pendant l’échauffement, malgré toute la bienveillance dont il fait preuve au quotidien, il ne pense qu’à lui. Le but de l’échauffement, c’est comme son nom l’indique : préparer le corps, affûter ses coups pour le set ou le match à venir. Ce n’est pas le moment de frimer. Wallace se satisferait d’exécuter mille fois le même coup droit pendant l’échauffement. C’est fastidieux, mais il aime la régularité. Il déteste louper la balle. « Tu voudrais pas faire un set ? » demande Cole par-dessus le filet. « Si, on peut faire ça. — Super. Premier service dans le carré ? — Parfait. » Il passe la balle à Cole par un amorti, et va se placer en fond de court pour recevoir. Cole fait rebondir la balle, les yeux sur le carré de service. La balle s’élève lentement de sa main et il renvoie sa raquette en arrière pour frapper. Il manque affreusement son coup, et l’expédie dans le grillage, qui fait un bruit métallique. Il réessaie. Encore un loupé, cette fois la balle s’écrase juste devant lui sur le court. Wallace fait claquer sa langue contre son palais, mais il sait qu’une fois que Cole aura retrouvé son service, ce même côté imprévisible le rendra difficile à déchiffrer et à renvoyer. Cole s’essuie le front, dégoûté, et fait rouler ses épaules deux fois brusquement. Puis il jette la balle et cette fois il la frappe parfaitement. La balle atterrit au coin du carré de service, sans effet ni rien, juste basse et ultrarapide. Wallace la renvoie tant bien que mal en coup droit et sa balle coupée arrive lentement sur Cole, qui met le point. Au service suivant, Wallace répond par un très beau retour, expédiant la balle sur la ligne de fond, hors de portée de Cole. La géométrie du tennis est simple par bien des aspects.

• From Real Life (2020)

  Il pourrait les jeter. Wallace appuie le front contre le viseur de son microscope. « Merde. Merde. Merde. » Henrik saurait quoi faire. Henrik dirait : Allez, au boulot. Qu’est-ce que t’attends ? Wallace prend sa pince, un tube capillaire en verre fondu autour d’un morceau de fil de titanium aplati. Il place un chalumeau en métal au-dessus du gaz, l’allume. L’odeur de pourri, légèrement sucrée, du gaz naturel, puis l’ignition, un rougeoiement orangé, quelques étincelles qui se dissolvent, le feu. Il passe le bout de la pince dans la flamme pour la stériliser. Il sort une nouvelle lame, enduit le bout de son fil d’ E.coli en guise de colle et glisse l’une des anciennes lames sous l’objectif. C’est comme regarder une canopée par au-dessus. Il attend un signe de mouvement, fait tourner le verre à la base du microscope pour changer l’angle de la lumière de façon qu’une étrange ombre métallique se pose sur ses sujets, fouille des yeux, attend, fouille, attend, fouille, fait tourner, attend, fouille. Enfin il distingue un ver, les ronces des spores collées à son dos, et abaisse lentement sa pince comme une machine dans un stand de tir ; il tapote délicatement, plus doucement que ça encore, et le ver vient, de son monde, à l’air : il remonte à la surface et adhère à la pince. Wallace le pose sur une lame propre. Tout cet espace vierge ; c’est irréel. Un ver. Plus que cinq cent quatre-vingt-dix-neuf. Il abaisse la pince. Commence. Les animaux ne sont pas morts – c’est un soulagement. Il s’attendait à pire. Ils sont plus stériles qu’il ne l’avait anticipé, ovocytes ratatinés et canaux déférents vides, ce qui ajoute à l’ampleur de la tâche. Ceux-là, il les brûle sur la flamme comme une divinité furieuse. Brigit, vêtue de gris pâle, se glisse derrière la paillasse, frôlant Wallace, et se laisse tomber sur l’ancien fauteuil d’Henrik. « Wally, fait-elle, agacée. Maman est de mauvais poil aujourd’hui. — Elle est dégoûtée à cause de mes plaques, je parie. — Sale coup. » Brigit est pleine de compassion. Elle a toujours été gentille avec lui, avec une grande simplicité. Elle ne donne pas l’impression d’attendre quoi que ce soit en retour de sa bienveillance, ou d’estimer qu’elle le traite d’une façon exceptionnelle. C’est peut-être ça qui paraît si exceptionnel à Wallace, qui n’est pas habitué aux mains tendues sans arrière-pensée, à la générosité. Brigit pose les pieds sur le bureau d’Henrik et croise les doigts sur son ventre. « C’est quand même bizarre, non ? — Quoi ? » demande Wallace, détournant les yeux de son microscope pour la regarder. Quelque chose dans la voix de Brigit le retient, un accent de suspicion calme. « Non, rien. C’est juste bizarre que toutes les lames se soient retrouvées avariées comme ça.

• From Another Country (1962)

  They were in the park. Ida leaned forward and lit a cigarette with trembling hands, then gestured out the window. “I bet you think we’re in a goddam park. You don’t know we’re in one of the world’s great jungles. You don’t know that behind all them damn dainty trees and shit, people are screwing and sucking and fixing and dying. Dying, baby, right now while we move through this darkness in this man’s taxicab. And you don’t know it, even when you’re told; you don’t know it, even when you see it.” She felt very far from Ida, and very small and cold. “How can we know it, Ida? How can you blame us if we don’t know? We never had a chance to find out. I hardly knew that Central Park existed until I was a married woman.” And she, too, looked out at the park, trying to see what Ida saw; but, of course, she saw only the trees and the lights and the grass and the twisting road and the shape of the buildings beyond the park. “There were hardly any colored people in the town I grew up in—how am I to know?” And she hated herself for her next question, but she could not hold it back: “Don’t you think I deserve some credit, for trying to be human, for not being a part of all that, for —walking out?” “What the hell,” asked Ida, “have you walked out on, Cass?” “That world,” said Cass, “that empty life, that meaningless life!” Ida laughed. It was a cruel sound and yet Cass sensed, very powerfully, that Ida was not trying to be cruel. She seemed to be laboring, within herself, up some steep, unprecedented slope. “Couldn’t we put it another way, honey—just for kicks? Couldn’t we, sort of, blame it on nature? and say that you saw Richard and he got you hot, and so you didn’t really walk out—you just got married?” Cass began to be angry; and she asked herself, Why? She said, “No. Long before I met Richard, I knew that that wasn’t the life for me.” And this was true, and yet her voice lacked conviction. And Ida, relentlessly, put Cass’ unspoken question into words. “And what would have happened if Richard hadn’t come?” “I don’t know. But this is silly. He did come. I did leave.”

• From Push (1996)

  I put on Kool and the Gang and you disco to that? She had a happy childhood all 'n all, Carl jus' a high-natured man . . ." I don't believe Mama! Why don't she jus' shut up with this diarrhea shit! "When? I don't know when it start. When I remember it? She still little. Yeah, around three maybe. I give her a bottle. I still got milk in my bresses but not for her but from Carl sucking. I give him tittie, Precious bottle. Hygiene, you know?" "Huh?" Ms Weiss go. "Huh?" go Mama back. "You mentioned something about hygiene in connection with ... with ..." Ms Weiss can't finish. "I bottle her, tittie him. Bottle more better for kidz. Sanitary. But I never git dried up 'cause Carl always on me. It's like that you know. Chile, man —a woman got bofe. What you gonna do? So we in bed. I put her on one side of me on pillow, Carl on other side me." Ms Weiss look like she done stopped breathing. "Carl got my tittie in his mouf. Nuffin' wrong wif that, it's natural. But I think thas the day IT start. I don't never remember nothing before that. I hot. He sucking my tittie. My eyes closed. I know he getting hard I can see wifout my eyes, I love him so much." Umm hmm, I was raised by a psycho maniac fool. "He climb on me, you know. You unnerstand?" No, tell us some more stupid bitch. "So he on me. Then he reach over to Precious! Start wif his finger between her legs. I say Carl what you doing! He say shut your big ass up! This is good for her. Then he git off me, take off her Pampers and try to stick his thing in Precious. You know what trip me out is it almost can go in Precious! I think she some kin da freak baby then. I say stop Carl stop! I want him on me! I never wanted him to hurt her. I didn't want him doing anything to her. I wanted my man for myself. Sex me up, not my chile. So you cain't blame all that shit happen to Precious on me. I love Carl, I love him. He her daddy, but he was my man!'' Ms Weiss look at me now. "Precious, you've been writing in your journal about this.'' "This and other stuff." "She write poems too, lady at Each One Teach One say." This from Mama. Mama one hundred, not ninety nine, percent crazy. "Would you like to share some of that in this session?" Ms Weiss ask. "No." "Why not?" "Ms Rain say journal completely confidential. Share if you want. If you don't want to, don't. I don't want to." I'm gone. It's 4:45 p.m. Up! One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight steps. I hate Mama, she ain' shit. I feel like nothing around her, like minus nothing.

• From Real Life (2020)

  Il y a quelques voitures. Le ciel s’éclaircit. Wallace marche d’un pas lourd, les bras croisés sur la poitrine pour se réchauffer. Dans la côte, il dépasse les maisons familières, les façades toutes pareilles avec des variations mineures, crème, kaki, bleu marine. Les portes verrouillées avec soin. Ici et là, un porche garni de meubles en bois, ou d’un canapé au tissu hideux. L’herbe de la ville, hirsute. Un arbre par-ci par-là. Des voitures garées proprement le long des trottoirs. Pendant toute la montée, ses pas résonnent doucement. L’air est frais et humide. Il a mal partout, l’impression d’être écorché de l’intérieur. Devant lui, il aperçoit le toit du Capitole, et encore après, la masse grise du lac. Il est presque arrivé. Est-il vrai que Miller a failli tuer quelqu’un ? Fracassé ses os sur un gamin par pur désœuvrement ? La colère, ça peut faire ça : passer d’une personne à l’autre comme une maladie, une épidémie. Après tout, au dîner, quand il a balancé cette grenade sur Vincent à cause de ce qu’on lui avait dit, à lui, Wallace a été cruel. Et c’est parce qu’il a parlé de l’Alabama à Miller que Miller lui a parlé de l’Indiana – ils se sont échangé la cruauté comme un joint. Peut-être que l’amitié n’est rien que de la cruauté maîtrisée. Peut-être que c’est tout ce qu’ils font ; se déchiqueter les uns les autres, tout en espérant de la bienveillance en retour. Ou peut-être que c’est juste Wallace, qui est en manque d’amis, en manque d’une vraie compréhension du fonctionnement de l’amitié. Mais il comprend la cruauté. Il comprend la violence, même si l’amitié le dépasse. De même qu’il sent dans l’atmosphère le temps qu’il va faire, il sait reconnaître, à partir des marées mouvantes, la forme de la violence quand elle se profile à l’horizon. C’est son élément naturel, sa langue maternelle – il sait que les gens sont capables de se mutiler les uns les autres. Il l’a senti, au lit avec Miller, alors qu’il commençait à s’assoupir : s’il restait, une chose terrible allait se produire. Peut-être pas tout de suite, ni même le lendemain. Mais sous peu, une chose épouvantable les attendait au tournant. Pourquoi rester, dans ce cas ? Pourquoi, s’il pouvait la pressentir à la douleur dans son ventre, à la pression qui s’accumulait derrière ses yeux ? Wallace atteint le sommet de la colline, où la rue s’aplatit et se transforme en ruelle qui rejoint le Capitole. Il y a des cafés et des boulangeries à ce niveau, mais rien n’est encore ouvert. Il presse le pas pour dépasser un petit patio où des gens dorment sur des bancs peints, dans des couvertures humides. Une odeur d’urine et de pourri flotte dans l’air. Comme il lui aurait été facile de devenir l’un d’entre eux ; comme il lui aurait été facile de devenir SDF, ici ou en Alabama. Ça aussi, c’est un genre de vie, une issue possible.

• From Real Life (2020)

  Mangeant leurs légumes rôtis. Parlant de quoi, se demande Wallace. Les choses dont parlent deux personnes dont tout le monde pense qu’ils sont faits l’un pour l’autre. Qui sait quelles affinités se développent dans ces cas-là ? Comme ça doit être facile. Il n’est pas surpris de n’avoir pas été invité. Il n’est même pas spécialement vexé. À présent, il est dans une situation impossible ou il doit soit justifier son absence auprès de Miller, soit expliquer sa présence. Il fait rebondir la balle depuis trop longtemps, il voit que Cole s’impatiente de l’autre côté. Bien fait. Wallace fait un slice vers le milieu du terrain, avec un rebond qui prend Cole, qui a plongé dans l’autre sens, pris de court. Cole jette un coup d’œil derrière lui, un peu choqué par la vitesse de la balle, la puissance de l’effet. Le rebond du deuxième service lui cogne la poitrine. Wallace serre les dents et s’avance de nouveau vers la ligne. Encore un slice, sur le coup droit cette fois, mais le retour est faible. Wallace a déjà bondi en avant et le cueille sur le rebond, frappant la balle avec tout le poids de sa colère. Il a pris un peu d’avance dans le score, mais il n’a pas la sensation d’être en train de gagner quoi que ce soit à cet instant. Il n’a pas non plus l’impression d’avoir épuisé son désir de faire du mal, pour évacuer sa frustration et sa fureur. « Alors qu’est-ce que tu comptes faire, pour Vincent ? », demande-t-il quand ils changent de côté. Cole s’étrangle un peu. « Oh, je ne sais pas. Je ne peux pas aborder le sujet, si ? Il saura que j’étais aussi sur cette appli, sauf que c’était seulement pour le chercher. C’est tellement débile, à entendre. — C’est vrai. Mais tu ne peux pas ne rien dire. Il faut que tu marques le coup. » Cole garde le silence, tapote le filet avec sa raquette, faisant onduler l’ombre sur la surface du court, comme un filet de pêche draguant les fonds marins bleus. Wallace insiste : « Sauf si tu estimes que ça n’en vaut pas la peine. — Non, enfin si. C’est juste… Je suis plus blessé qu’autre chose, tu vois ? Je suis blessé qu’il ait menti. Je suis blessé qu’il fasse ça dans mon dos. — Tu crois que tu pourrais être d’accord pour une relation ouverte un jour ? — Je ne sais pas, Wallace, répond-il un peu sèchement. — Enfin je veux dire, à moins que tu aies l’intention de travailler moins d’heures dans un futur proche. » Cole cogne vraiment contre le filet à présent, et c’est toute la structure qui tremble sous ses coups. L’agacement lui crispe le visage. Oh, se dit Wallace. Oh non. Qu’a-t-il fait ? « Je suis désolé, ça ne me regarde pas. Pardon, j’ai été indiscret. — Non, tu soulèves un point important.

• From Another Country (1962)

  But he was also aware that they were beginning to attract attention, and he glanced at the windows where the rain streamed down, saying to himself. Okay, Rufus, behave yourself. And he leaned back in the booth, where he sat facing Jane and Vivaldo. He had reached her, and she struck back with the only weapon she had, a shapeless instrument which might once have been fury. “It doesn’t smell any worse in here than it does where you come from, baby.” Vivaldo and Rufus looked at each other. Vivaldo’s lips turned white. He said, “You say another word, baby, and I’m going to knock your teeth, both of them, right down your throat.” This profoundly delighted her. She became Bette Davis at once, and shouted at the top of her voice, “Are you threatening me?” Everyone turned to look at them. “Oh, shit,” said Rufus, “let’s go.” “Yes,” said Vivaldo, “let’s get out of here.” He looked at Jane. “Move. You filthy bitch.” And now she was contrite. She leaned forward and grabbed Rufus’ hand. “I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.” He tried to pull his hand away; she held on. He relaxed, not wanting to seem to struggle with her. Now she was being Joan Fontaine. “Please, you must believe me, Rufus!”