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 The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  I threw a couple of rocks back and told him to leave me alone. “Make me,” Ernie said. “I don’t make garbage,” I shouted. “I burn it.” This was usually a foolproof comeback, making up in scorn what it lacked in originality, but on this occasion it backfired. “Y’all Wallses don’t burn garbage!” Ernie yelled back. “Y’all throw it in a hole next to your house! You live in it!” I tried to think of a comeback to his comeback, but my mind seized up because what Ernie had said was true: We did live in garbage. Ernie stuck his face in mine. “Garbage! You live in garbage ’cause you are garbage!” I shoved him good and hard, then turned to the other kids, hoping for backup, but they were easing away and looking down, as if they were ashamed to have been caught playing with a girl who had a garbage pit next to her house. • • • That Saturday, Brian and I were reading on the sofa bed when one of the windowpanes shattered and a rock landed on the floor. We ran to the door. Ernie and three of his friends were pedaling their bikes up and down Little Hobart Street, whooping madly. “Garbage! Garbage! Y’all are a bunch of garbage!” Brian went out on the porch. One of the kids hurled another rock that hit Brian in the head. He staggered back, then ran down the steps, but Ernie and his friends pedaled away, shrieking. Brian came back up the stairs, blood trickling down his cheek and onto his T-shirt and a pump knot already swelling up above his eyebrow. Ernie’s gang returned a few minutes later, throwing stones and shouting that they had actually seen the pigsty where the Walls kids lived and that they were going to tell the whole school it was even worse than everyone said. This time both Brian and I chased after them. Even though they outnumbered us, they were enjoying the game of taunting us too much to make a stand. They rode down to the first switchback and got away. “They’ll be back,” Brian said. “What are we going to do?” I asked. Brian sat thinking, then told me he had a plan. He found some rope under the house and led me up to a clearing in the hillside above Little Hobart Street. A few weeks earlier, Brian and I had dragged an old mattress up there because we were thinking of camping out. Brian explained how we could make a catapult, like the medieval ones we’d read about, by piling rocks on the mattress and rigging it with ropes looped over tree branches. We quickly assembled the contraption and tested it once, jerking back on the ropes at the count of three. It worked—a minor avalanche of rocks rained onto the street below.

• From The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  Brian nodded at the front door, and we all went outside and started making sand castles for scorpions. We figured that if we were all in the yard acting like the fighting was no big deal, maybe the neighbors would feel the same way. But as the screaming continued, neighbors started gathering on the street. Some were simply curious. Moms and dads got into arguments all the time in Battle Mountain, so it didn’t seem that big a deal, but this fight was raucous even by local standards, and some people thought they should step in and break it up. “Aw, let ’em work out their differences,” one of the men said. “No one’s got a right to interfere.” So they leaned back against car fenders and fence posts, or sat on pickup tailgates, as if they were at a rodeo. Suddenly, one of Mom’s oil paintings came flying through an upstairs window. Next came her easel. The crowd below scurried back to avoid getting hit. Then Mom’s feet appeared in the window, followed by the rest of her body. She was dangling from the second floor, her legs swinging wildly. Dad was holding her by the arms while she tried to hit him in the face. “Help!” Mom screamed. “He’s trying to kill me!” “Goddammit, Rose Mary, get back in here!” Dad said. “Don’t hurt her!” Lori yelled. Mom was swinging back and forth. Her yellow cotton dress had gotten bunched up around her waist, and the crowd could see her white underwear. They were sort of old and baggy, and I was afraid they might fall off altogether. Some of the grown-ups called out, worried that Mom might fall, but one group of kids thought Mom looked like a chimpanzee swinging from a tree, and they began making monkey noises and scratching their armpits and laughing. Brian’s face turned dark and his fists clenched up. I felt like punching them, too, but I pulled Brian back. Mom was thrashing around so hard that her shoes fell off. It looked like she might slip from Dad’s grasp or pull him out the window. Lori turned to Brian and me. “Come on.” We ran inside and up the stairs and held on to Dad’s legs so that Mom’s weight wouldn’t drag him through the window as well. Finally, he pulled Mom back inside. She collapsed onto the floor. “He tried to kill me,” Mom sobbed. “Your father wants to watch me die.” “I didn’t push her,” Dad protested. “I swear to God I didn’t. She jumped.” He was standing over Mom, holding out his hands, palms up, pleading his innocence. Lori stroked Mom’s hair and dried her tears. Brian leaned against the wall and shook his head. “Everything’s okay now,” I said over and over again.

• From The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  hell gutted old Oz, didn’t they?” He turned to me. “Jeannette, do you know what happened?” He was actually half grinning at me. After the whipping, Dad had jacked up the charm with me, and even though I was planning to leave, he could make me laugh when he tried, and he still considered me an ally. But now I wanted to knock him over the head. “You took our money,” I said. “That’s what happened.” “Well, don’t that beat all,” Dad said. He started going on about how a man comes home from slaying dragons, trying to keep his family safe, and all he wants in return for his toil and sacrifice is a little love and respect, but it seemed these days that was just too damn much to ask for. He said he didn’t take our New York money, but if Lori was hell-bent on living in that cesspool, he’d finance her trip himself. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a few wadded dollar bills. We just stared at him, so he let the crumpled money fall to the floor. “Suit yourself,” he said. “Why are you doing this to us, Dad?” I asked. “Why?” His face tightened with anger, then he staggered to the sofa bed and passed out. “I’ll never get out of here,” Lori kept saying. “I’ll never get out of here.” “You will,” I said. “I swear it.” I believed she would. Because I knew that if Lori never got out of Welch, neither would I. • • • I went back to G. C. Murphy the next day and stared at the shelf of piggy banks. They were all either plastic or porcelain or glass, easily broken. I studied a collection of metal boxes with locks and keys. The hinges were too flimsy. Dad could pry them apart. I bought a blue change purse. I wore it on a belt under my clothes at all times. When it got too full, I put the money in a sock that I hid in a hole in the wall below my bunk. We started saving again, but Lori felt too defeated to paint much, and the money didn’t come as quickly. A week before school was out, we had only $37.20 in the sock. Then one of the women I’d been babysitting for, a teacher named Mrs. Sanders, told me she and her family were moving back to their hometown in Iowa and asked if I wanted to spend the summer with them there. If I came along and helped look after her two toddlers, she said she’d pay me two hundred dollars at the end of the summer and buy me a bus ticket back to Welch. I thought about her offer. “Take Lori instead of me,” I said. “And at the end of

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  The Summoner’s Prologue The Prologe of the Somonours Tale The Summoner stood up in his stirrups and shook his fist at the Friar; he was so angry that he was shaking like an aspen leaf. He was as mad as hell. ‘I want only one thing, fellow pilgrims,’ he said. ‘I ask you, out of courtesy to me, now that you have heard this false Friar lying through his teeth, to listen to my tale. This Friar boasts that he knows all about hell. I am not surprised. Friars and fiends are very closely related. You must have heard the story about the friar who was taken to hell in a vision. When the angel guided him through all the circles and pains of that inferno, the friar could see none of his brethren. There were plenty of other people in torment, but there were no friars. So he spoke up and asked the angel, “Tell me, sir, are friars so virtuous that none are damned?” ‘“No indeed,” the angel replied. “There are millions of them here.” The spirit led him down to the body of Satan himself. “Do you see the demon’s tail?” he asked the friar. “It is as broad as a sail on a great ship, is it not? Just look what is beneath it. Hold up your tail, Satan! Let us see your arse. Let the friar see where all his brethren are hiding.” ‘Satan did as he was told. A couple of minutes later the friars came out like a swarm of bees. They were pushed and prodded by junior fiends; they ran in all directions, here and there through the precincts of hell, till on one accord they fled back up Satan’s fundament. Then the devil covered his arse with his tail, and settled down again. ‘When the friar had thoroughly acquainted himself with all the miseries and mysteries of hell, his spirit returned to his body. He awoke in his own bed, by God’s mercy, but he was so fearful that he sweated and shook. He could not get the arse of the devil out of his thoughts. That was the place he was heading for. ‘God save all of you gentlemen and ladies - all except the cursed Friar here. Now I will get on with my story.’

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  God Almighty will place it on your heads, as the reward you deserve.’ When she had finished, some officers of the court arrived to take Valerian and Tiburce to the temple of Jupiter. When they were led before the image of the god they refused to make any sacrifice to it. They declined to bow down before it or offer incense to the idol. Instead they fell to their knees and prayed to the true God. So they were beheaded on the spot, and their souls rose into heaven. Maximus was present at their execution, and afterwards related that he had seen the souls of the two saints ascending to paradise in the company of bright angels. He wept many times as he told this story to others, but his tears converted them all to the true faith. When he heard of this, Almachius ordered that he should be whipped to death with cords of lead. Saint Cecilia then took up his body and buried it beside the graves of Valerian and Tiburce, where they shared a simple stone. But then Almachius struck. He ordered that the virgin should herself be taken to the temple of Jupiter, where she would be obliged to venerate the idol with incense. But the officers of his court had been converted by her preaching. They wept aloud, and proclaimed their belief in the Christian faith. ‘We believe that Christ is the son of God,’ they told him. ‘We believe that He was God in human form. We know this to be true. The holy maid is His servant. We swear to this, even if we are condemned to death.’ When the prefect of the city heard of these things, he ordered that Cecilia should be brought before him. He asked her first about her rank and degree. ‘I was born and raised a gentlewoman, ’ she told him. ‘Now let me know this,’ Almachius replied. ‘What religion do you espouse? What are your beliefs?’ ‘That is a foolish question, sir. You are asking me two things at once. That’s silly.’ ‘Why are you so impudent to me?’ Almachius asked her. ‘Why? Because I have a clear conscience. Because I have come here in good faith.’ ‘Do you have no respect for my power?’ ‘Your power is very small. The authority of any man is no more than a bladder filled with wind. The point of a pin will puncture it. Then there is nothing.’ ‘You began in the wrong tone. Now you are being offensive. Do you not know that the rulers of the land have ordained that all Christians will be arrested and punished. But, if they renounce their so-called faith, they will escape any penalty?’ ‘Your rulers are mistaken. You and the other nobles are also wrong. You make us guilty by passing a foolish law. You know very well that we are innocent of any crime. We are Christians, who honour the name of Christ. That is all.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  Why don’t you take another ounce of quicksilver and cast it in the pan with the silver bar? Do what you did before. Quickly.’ So the priest poured in the quicksilver, scattered the powder over it, and set the pan over the fire. Then he blew into the flames, on the instruction of the canon, and waited for the outcome he desired. In the meantime the canon was getting ready to fool the priest again. He took out from his pocket a hollow stick, in the end of which he had secreted an ounce of silver filings. He had secured the end with some sealing wax, just as he had done with the piece of coal. While the priest was busy with the fire, the canon once again sprinkled some more powder into the crucible and stood waiting expectantly. You have seen the measure of his falsehood, have you not? May the devil flay his skin! May God desert him in his last hours! Then he took the stick and began stirring the coals. Of course all fell out as before. By which I mean, the filings of the silver fell out. As soon as the wax melted they ran out of the crucible and soon became liquid metal. What do you think happened, gentlemen? The priest was fooled by the same trick twice. The idiot was so pleased by the sight of the silver that I scarcely have the words to describe his delight. He was delirious. He gave himself up, body and soul, to the deceiver. ‘Yes,’ the canon said, ‘I may be poor, but I have a certain wisdom. And I prophesy this. There is more silver to come. Do you have any copper in the house?’ ‘Of course. I know where to find some.’ ‘Well, sir, hurry up and get it.’ So the priest went off, found the copper, and brought it back to the canon. As soon as he had it in his hands, the canon carefully weighed out an ounce. No pen can describe, no tongue can tell of, his wickedness and false seeming. He was the minister of lies and deception. He seemed friendly enough to those who did not know him, but in thought and deed he was a fiend. It wearies me to list his crimes, but I do it only to put you on your guard against him and others like him. This is what he did. He put the ounce of copper into the crucible, and placed it upon the burning coals. Once more he cast in his white powder. Once more he asked the silly priest to blow upon the fire. It was all a trick, of course, a piece of showmanship to fool the gullible. Then he poured the molten copper into a mould, and plunged it into cold water. There was a hiss. Steam arose.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  The Friar’s Prologue The Prologe of the Freres Tale That worthy man, that Friar, had been frowning and glowering at the Summoner all the time that the Wife had been speaking. He had not forgotten their argument. But, for the sake of decency, he had not said anything vicious. Now he spoke up. ‘Dame Alison,’ he said, ‘good Wife of Bath, God send you a long life! I swear that you have touched upon a matter for debate by scholars, and you have acquitted yourself very well. But, ma dame, while we are riding here together our only task is to entertain one another. There is no need to engage in moral discussion. Leave that to the priests in their pulpits. So, if the rest of the company are agreed, I will now tell you a funny story about a summoner. I think you will all admit that there is nothing good to be said about that profession. Summoners are the pits. Of course I am not referring to any individual here.’ He glanced at the Summoner before continuing. ‘A summoner is a jackal. He runs up and down with writs of arrest for fornication. And of course, consequently, he gets beaten up all the time.’ Harry Bailey, our Host, interrupted him. ‘Good Friar,’ he said, ‘please be polite. A man of the cloth ought to be courteous to others. We will have no arguments between ourselves. Get on with your story. And leave the Summoner alone.’ ‘Let him say what he likes,’ the Summoner replied. ‘It doesn’t worry me. When my turn comes, I will pay him back in kind. I will tell him all about friars, false flatterers as they are. I have a lot of dirty stories about them that I will keep in reserve. He will learn what it is to be a friar.’ ‘Peace. No more.’ Our Host put up his hand. ‘Now, good master Friar, will you please tell your story without more delay? It is getting late.’ The Friar cleared his throat.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  The Monk’s Prologue The murye wordes of the Hoost to the Monk ‘Stop, stop.’ Harry Bailey stood up in his saddle. ‘If that was the introduction, I hate to think what the rest will be like. And I am tired of stories about patient wives. They do not exist. Take my wife, for instance. Go on. Take her. She is as patient as a mad bull. When I chastise my servants, she comes out with a great wooden stick and urges me on. “Go on,” she says. “Beat the shit out of them! Break every bone in their worthless bodies!” If by any chance one of our neighbours fails to greet her in church, or slights her in some other way, she makes me pay for it when we get home. “You fool! You coward!” she shouts at me, all the time waving her fists near my face. “You can’t even defend your wife against insults. I should be the man around the house. Here. You can have my distaff and go spin a shift.” She can nag me like this all day long. “It is a shame,” she says, “that I should have married a milksop rather than a man. You have about as much spine as a worm. Anyone can walk over you. If you cannot stand up for your wife’s rights, then you do not stand for anything.” ‘So it goes on, day after day, unless I choose to make a fight of it. But what’s the point? I just leave the house. Otherwise I would work myself into a state of madness. She makes me so wild that - I swear to God - she will make me kill somebody one of these days. I am a dangerous man when I have a knife in my hand. It is true that I run away from her. But she has huge arms, and strong wrists, as anyone who has crossed her will know. Anyway, enough of her.’

• From The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  On our way home, we were slapping each other’s hands and pumping our fists in the air, as if we’d won a boxing match. We decided we had been Pervert Hunting, which was just like Demon Hunting except the enemy was real and dangerous instead of being the product of a kid’s overactive imagination. The next day, when Dad came home and we told him what had happened, he said he was going to kill that lowlife sonofabitch. He and Brian and I went out on a serious Pervert Hunt. Our blood up, we searched the streets for hours, but we never did find the guy. I asked Mom and Dad if we should close the doors and windows when we went to sleep. They wouldn’t consider it. We needed the fresh air, they said, and it was essential that we refuse to surrender to fear. So the windows stayed open. Maureen kept having nightmares of men in Halloween masks. And every now and then, when Brian and I were feeling revved up, he’d get a machete and I’d get a baseball bat and we’d go Pervert Hunting, clearing the streets of the creeps who preyed on kids. • • • Mom and Dad liked to make a big point about never surrendering to fear or to prejudice or to the narrow-minded conformist sticks-in-the-mud who tried to tell everyone else what was proper. We were supposed to ignore those benighted sheep, as Dad called them. One day Mom went with us kids to the library at the Civic Center. Since the weather was sweltering, she suggested we cool off by jumping into the fountain in front of the building. The water was too shallow to swim in, but we paddled around pretending to be crocodiles until we attracted a small crowd of people who kept insisting to Mom that swimming was forbidden in the fountain. “Mind your own beeswax,” Mom replied. I was feeling kind of embarrassed and started to climb out. “Ignore the fuddy-duddies!” Mom told me, and to make it clear she paid no nevermind to such people or their opinions, she clambered into the fountain and plopped down beside us, sending gallons of water sloshing over the sides. It never bothered Mom if people turned and stared at her, even in church. Although she thought nuns were killjoys and she didn’t follow all the Church’s rules word for word—she treated the Ten Commandments more like the Ten Suggestions—Mom considered herself a devout Catholic and took us to mass most Sundays. St. Mary’s was the biggest, most beautiful church I had ever seen. It was made of sand-colored adobe and had two soaring steeples, a gigantic circular stained-glass window, and, leading up to the two main doors, a pair of sweeping staircases covered with pigeons. The other mothers dressed up for mass, wearing black lace mantillas on their heads and clutching green or red or yellow handbags that matched their shoes.

• From The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  “I know what I saw,” I said. “She’s a pervert!” Erma reached over to slap me, but Lori caught her hand. “Let’s all calm down,” Lori said in the same voice she used when Mom and Dad got carried away, arguing. “Everybody. Calm down.” Erma jerked her hand out of Lori’s grasp and slapped her so hard that Lori’s glasses went flying across the room. Lori, who had turned thirteen, slapped her back. Erma hit Lori again, and this time Lori struck Erma a blow in the jaw. Then they flew at each other, tussling and flailing and pulling hair, locked together, with Brian and me cheering on Lori until we woke up Uncle Stanley, who staggered into the room and pushed them apart. Erma relegated us to the basement after that. A door in the basement led directly outside, so we never went upstairs. We weren’t even allowed to use Erma’s bathroom, which meant we either had to wait for school or go outside after dark. Uncle Stanley sometimes sneaked down beans he’d boiled for us, but he was afraid if he stayed talking, Erma would think he’d taken our side and get mad at him, too. The following week, a storm hit. The temperature dropped, and a foot of snow fell on Welch. Erma wouldn’t let us use any coal—she said we didn’t know how to operate the stove and would burn the house down—and it was so cold in the basement that Lori, Brian, Maureen, and I were glad we all shared one bed. As soon as we got home from school, we’d climb under the covers with our clothes on and do our homework there. We were in bed the night Mom and Dad came back. We didn’t hear the sound of the car pulling up. All we heard was the front door opening upstairs, then Mom and Dad’s voices and Erma beginning the long narrative of her grievances against us. That was followed by the sound of Dad stomping down the stairs into the basement, furious at all of us, me for back-talking Erma and making wild accusations, and Lori even more for daring to strike her own grandmother, and Brian for being such a pussy and starting the whole thing. I thought Dad would come around to our side once he’d heard what had happened, and I tried to explain. “I don’t care what happened!” he yelled. “But we were just protecting ourselves,” I said. “Brian’s a man, he can take it,” he said. “I don’t want to hear another word of this. Do you hear me?” He was shaking his head, but wildly, almost as if he thought he could keep out the sound of my voice. He wouldn’t even look at me.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

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

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

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

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Mi cuerpo se calienta, recordando eso. La vista de ella caminando desnuda a la cocina una noche, y como no la dejé tomar un bocadillo de media noche hasta que yo tuviera el mío. Estaba tan hermosa. Me enderezo, apretando los dientes. —¿Observaste? —No. —Suelta como si nunca se atreviera. Y luego se encoje de hombros—. Quiero decir, lo hubiera hecho si no hubieran terminado en el suelo eventualmente y fuera de mi línea de visión. Continua con una risa, y si pudiera volar, estaría sobre su cerca en este momento, estrangulándolo. Parece notar mi ira e intenta calmarme. —Escucha, no pretendía ver nada, ¿está bien? Sabes, podrías intentar permanecer alejado de las ventanas. —Mueve la cabeza—. Solo digo que creo que es la primera vez que te vi sonreír. Ciertamente parece que te hizo feliz. En realidad no podría creer que ella no fuera capaz de hacer feliz a cualquier otro hombre. —Cállate de una jodida vez —murmuro, inclinándome y recogiendo las herramientas, tirándolas en la pequeña caja. ¿De verdad? ¿Cómo pudimos ser tan descuidados? Él es la última persona cuyos ojos quiero sobre ella. —Entonces, ¿a dónde fue? —pregunta—. ¿No funcionó para ustedes? Lo ignoro, reuniendo mi mierda, para poder escapar adentro. —¿Cómo lo echaste a perder, hombre? —Se ríe, tomando un sorbo de su cerveza—. Si encuentras a una mujer así, joven y ardiente con un cuerpo en buena forma, no la pierdes. Lanzo la llave al suelo, moviéndome hacia adelante sin tener a dónde ir. —Voy a patear tu trasero. Cierra la maldita boca. —Entonces, está disponible ahora, ¿verdad? —Hijo de perra —gruño. Se ríe entre dientes. Debe ser tan divertido. —Definitivamente eres triste —dice—. Las mujeres no son tan difíciles de hacer feliz si te interesa un poco. —No soy incapaz —espeto—. Pero ese no es el punto. Las chicas adolescentes deben estar con chicos adolescentes, y no lo olvides de una jodida vez la próxima vez que te cruces con una. Ella merece a alguien de su propia edad.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  By the blood of Christ, give me a seven!’ And then he exclaims, ‘By the bones of Christ, I will stab you to the heart if you play false with me!’ This is the fruit of the cursed dice - curses, anger, perjury and murder. So for the love of Christ, who died for us, forsake all oaths. Now I will get on with my story. These three young scoundrels, whom I mentioned at the beginning, were sitting in a low tavern long before daybreak. They were drinking together when suddenly they heard the chink of the handbell that announces the carriage of a coffin to the grave. One of them turned to his servant. ‘Go outside,’ he said, ‘and find out whose corpse it is. Try to remember the name.’ ‘Sir,’ the boy replied, ‘that isn’t necessary. I knew about it two hours ago. It is the body of an old comrade of yours. He was murdered last night, very suddenly, as he sat blind drunk upon the bench outside the tavern. A thief called Death sneaked up on him. Death is killing everyone around here. He took up his spear, pierced the drunk through the heart, and silently went on his way. He has killed another thousand during the recent plague. I think, master, that you should be careful not to come too close to him. It is better to beware such an adversary. That’s what my mother taught me. Death is the constant enemy.’

• From Going Clear (2013)

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

• From Mud Vein (2014)

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

• From The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  I felt Stanley's hand creeping onto my thigh. I looked at him, but he was staring at the *Hee Haw* Honeys so intently that I couldn't be sure he was doing it on purpose, so I knocked his hand away without saying anything. A few minutes later, the hand came creeping back. I looked down and saw that Uncle Stanley's pants were unzipped and he was playing with himself. I felt like hitting him, but I was afraid I'd get in trouble the way Lori had after punching Erma, so I hurried out to Mom. "Mom, Uncle Stanley is behaving inappropriately," I said. … Mom cocked her head and looked concerned. "Poor Stanley," she said. "He's so lonely."

• From The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  in the car, Dad would go through Mom’s purse and take the money out. On one trip, Mom went into the bank alone because Dad couldn’t find a place to park. When she came out, she was missing a sock. “Jeannette, I’m going to give you a sock that I want you to put in a safe place,” Mom said once she got in the car. She winked hard at me as she reached inside her bra and pulled out her other sock, knotted in the middle and bulging at the toe. “Hide it where no one can get it, because you know how scarce socks can get in our house.” “Goddammit, Rose Mary,” Dad snapped. “Do you think I’m a fucking idiot?” “What?” Mom asked, throwing her arms up in the air. “Am I not allowed to give my daughter a sock?” She winked at me again, just in case I didn’t get it. Back in Battle Mountain, Dad insisted we go to the Owl Club to celebrate payday, and ordered steaks for all of us. They tasted so good we forgot we were eating a week’s worth of groceries. “Hey, Mountain Goat,” Dad said at the end of the dinner, while Mom was putting our table scraps in her purse. “Why don’t you let me borrow that sock for a second?” I looked around the table. No one met my eye except Dad, who was grinning like an alligator. I handed over the sock. Mom gave a dramatic sigh of defeat and let her head drop down on the table. To show who was in charge, Dad left the waitress a ten- dollar tip, but on the way out, Mom slipped it into her purse. • • • Soon we were out of money again. When Dad dropped Brian and me off at school, he noticed that we weren’t carrying lunch bags. “Where are your lunches?” Dad asked us. We looked at each other and shrugged. “There’s no food in the house,” Brian said. When Dad heard that, he acted outraged, as though he’d learned for the first time that his children were going hungry. “Dammit, that Rose Mary keeps spending money on art supplies!” he muttered, pretending to be talking to himself. Then he declared more loudly, “No child of mine has to go hungry!” After he dropped us off, he called after us, “Don’t you kids worry about a thing.” At lunch Brian and I sat together in the cafeteria. I was pretending to help him with his homework so that no one would ask us why we weren’t eating when Dad

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Jordan— está orientada hacia el patio trasero, y que posiblemente podría estar mirándola. Casualmente, camino hacia la mesa de jardín, enciendo mi cigarro y bajo el encendedor, fumando e inhalando hasta que el final se vuelve naranja. El dulce aroma llena mi nariz y exhalo el humo, inmediatamente siento un cosquilleo en mi cabeza. Me acerco a un lado de la piscina frente a ella y la miro, viendo que está vestida con unos pantalones cortos de dormir y una camisa negra sin sujetador. Los puntos duros de sus pezones son visibles desde aquí. manteniendo mi voz lo más baja posible. —Me ha visto en menos. Aprieto el cigarro y golpeo el extremo con mi dedo medio. —¿Y? —¿Y qué? Arqueo una ceja. —¿Te tocó? Escucho su aliento con una risa. —Tal vez. —Luego estrecha sus ojos en mí—. Y tal vez se lo permití. De tal palo tal astilla, después de todo. Me duele la mandíbula y sacude la cabeza, apartándose de mí. Sé que está enojada. Sé por qué está enojada. Y sé que todos hacemos cosas estúpidas cuando estamos enojados. Me está alejando, y solo necesito tiempo para pensar. Solo algo de tiempo. —No hagas esto —le digo. —Entonces no me hagas preguntas estúpidas. Su pecho se levanta y cae con respiraciones superficiales, y se ve miserable. No sé qué hacer. —Esto me está matando —le susurro, disparando mis ojos a su ventana para asegurarme que Lindsay no está mirando—. Jodidamente matando, saber que estás en su cama. —Entonces debiste haberles dicho la verdad —responde—. Que podían usar mi habitación todo lo que quisiera, porque ahora duermo en tu cama. Tenso mi mandíbula. —¿Vas a dormir en eso? —murmuro, apenas moviendo mis labios y

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

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