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 Decameron (1353)

  Accordingly, they fared on and came, after some days, to Antioch, where Giosefo kept Melisso with him, that he might rest himself a day or two, and being scurvily enough received of his wife, he bade her prepare supper according as Melisso should ordain; whereof the latter, seeing that it was his friend's pleasure, acquitted himself in a few words. The lady, as her usance had been in the past, did not as Melisso had ordained, but well nigh altogether the contrary; which Giosefo seeing, he was vexed and said, 'Was it not told thee on what wise thou shouldst prepare the supper?' The lady, turning round haughtily, answered, 'What meaneth this? Good lack, why dost thou not sup, an thou have a mind to sup? An if it were told me otherwise, it seemed good to me to do thus. If it please thee, so be it; if not, leave it be.' Melisso marvelled at the lady's answer and blamed her exceedingly; whilst Giosefo, hearing this, said, 'Wife, thou art still what thou wast wont to be; but, trust me, I will make thee change thy fashion.' Then turning to Melisso, 'Friend,' said he, 'we shall soon see what manner of counsel was Solomon's; but I prithee let it not irk thee to stand to see it and hold that which I shall do for a sport. And that thou mayest not hinder me, bethink thee of the answer the muleteer made us, when we pitied his mule.' Quoth Melisso, 'I am in thy house, where I purpose not to depart from thy good pleasure.' Giosefo then took a round stick, made of a young oak, and repaired a chamber, whither the lady, having arisen from table for despite, had betaken herself, grumbling; then, laying hold of her by the hair, he threw her down at his feet and proceeded to give her a sore beating with the stick. The lady at first cried out and after fell to threats; but, seeing that Giosefo for all that stinted not and being by this time all bruised, she began to cry him mercy for God's sake and besought him not to kill her, declaring that she would never more depart from his pleasure. Nevertheless, he held not his hand; nay, he continued to baste her more furiously than ever on all her seams, belabouring her amain now on the ribs, now on the haunches and now about the shoulder, nor stinted till he was weary and there was not a place left unbruised on the good lady's back. This done, he returned to his friend and said to him, 'To-morrow we shall see what will be the issue of the counsel to go to Goosebridge.' Then, after he had rested awhile and they had washed their hands, he supped with Melisso and in due season they betook themselves to bed.

• From Who Wrote the Bible? Searching for Its Origins and Authors (2025)

  4. Exodus: From Egypt to Sinai idea works with the second set of instructions—with Aaron holding his arm out and the water everywhere in Egypt turning to blood—but not so well with the first. Regardless, the narrative then says that the Nile turns to blood, the fish all die, and the Egyptians can’t drink from it. “All the Egyptians had to dig round about the Nile for drinking water, because they could not drink the water of the Nile” (7:24). Two sets of instructions and two fulfillments—and two stories. In one, Moses acts, and the Nile turns to blood in a lasting plague, forcing the Egyptians to find water elsewhere. In the other, Aaron acts, and every drop of water in Egypt is turned to blood—but only momentarily so that the Egyptian magicians can replicate the transformation with their spells. The J Story The first story is from the J source. Here, Pharaoh refuses to let Israel go, even though Moses has asked him nicely. All of the J plagues follow the same basic pattern as with the blood: God gives Moses instructions on what to say to Pharaoh and what to do to bring about the plague, hoping that this will be what convinces Pharaoh to let the people go. Moses asks Pharaoh for only a 3-day release of Israel so that they can go worship their god in the wilderness. However, Moses knows that they’re going to leave for good. In J, after each plague, Pharaoh has a chance to do the right thing. His people are suffering—how much of it can he take? Blood doesn’t seem to bother him, but when the frogs come 7 days later, Pharaoh flinches: “Plead with the Lord to remove the frogs from me and my people, and I will let the people go to sacrifice to the Lord” (8:8). As soon as the frogs are removed, Pharaoh again becomes stubborn and refuses. The same pattern repeats with the swarms of insects that follow the frogs, the cattle disease, and the hail. As each plague passes, the demonstrations of God’s power increase. For instance, there is hail all over the Egyptian fields, but “in the region of Goshen, where the Israelites were, there was no hail” (9:26). The J plagues are an ongoing negotiation until the killing of every Egyptian firstborn. With that, Pharaoh finally lets Israel go. By this point, the Israelites are so sure that Pharaoh will change his mind yet again that they rush to grab their things and flee. 22

• From Another Country (1962)

  Ida had turned again to the window. “What you people don’t know,” she said, “is that life is a bitch, baby. It’s the biggest hype going. You don’t have any experience in paying your dues and it’s going to be rough on you, baby, when the deal goes down. There’re lots of back dues to be collected, and I know damn well you haven’t got a penny saved.” Cass looked at the dark, proud head, which was half-turned away from her. “Do you hate white people, Ida?” Ida sucked her teeth in anger. “What the hell has that got to do with anything? Hell, yes, sometimes I hate them, I could see them all dead. And sometimes I don’t. I do have a couple of other things to occupy my mind.” Her face changed. She looked down at her fingers, she twisted her ring. “If any one white person gets through to you, it kind of destroys your—single-mindedness. They say that love and hate are very close together. Well, that’s a fact.” She turned to the window again. “But, Cass, ask yourself, look out and ask yourself—wouldn’t you hate all white people if they kept you in prison here?” They were rolling up startling Seventh Avenue. The entire population seemed to be in the streets, draped, almost, from lampposts, stoops, and hydrants, and walking through the traffic as though it were not there. “Kept you here, and stunted you and starved you, and made you watch your mother and father and sister and lover and brother and son and daughter die or go mad or go under, before your very eyes? And not in a hurry, like from one day to the next, but, every day, every day, for years, for generations? Shit. They keep you here because you’re black, the filthy, white cock suckers, while they go around jerking themselves off with all that jazz about the land of the free and the home of the brave. And they want you to jerk yourself off with that same music, too, only, keep your distance. Some days, honey, I wish I could turn myself into one big fist and grind this miserable country to powder. Some days, I don’t believe it has a right to exist. Now, you’ve never felt like that, and Vivaldo’s never felt like that. Vivaldo didn’t want to know my brother was dying because he doesn’t want to know that my brother would still be alive if he hadn’t been born black.” “I don’t know if that’s true or not,” Cass said, slowly, “but I guess I don’t have any right to say it isn’t true.”

• From Push (1996)

  ANGERREEY angerry very mi life not good i got dizeez. Ms Rain say NOT dizeez I say whut is it then. I Talk angr to Ms Rain she say u notice yr spelin change wen yu hav feelins not tal bout in book she say i am nt dyslx mine that say its emoshunal disturb lets talk bout it I was fine til HIV thing she say i still fine but prblm not jus HIV it mama Dady BUT I was gon dem I escap dem like Harriet Ms Ran say we can nt escap the pass. the way free is hard look Harriet H-A-R-R-I-E-T i pratise her name. Rita say keep tinkin whut you got to bee thankfill for Jermaine (she bes writer in skool) say semicoln no coin go befour list i gt two bee thankfill four: Ms Rain ocool school girlz in class Abdul Toosday Rita take me VILLAG Sat we go muzeum sun day chuch MONDY we gonna read Harriet T. book I feel btretter L, j glad I write my book Precious 3/6/89 Wat it be like to bee in luv. I wondr this al the time ALL time all the time. I kno sex sex so much. I kno bout sex alot a lot wht it be like to hav a fren, thas a guy I mean. I GOT frens. I don't sho Ms Rain everything in my book no mor. she mi techer Don want her kno if I rite about SEX if I have sex wif a kute coot boy thas my own age I wil . Rita got a man. Rhonda God. Ms Rain a fren. Jermaine say hole worl her lovr. 3/8/89 My favrt thing to take Abdul down to nursery at breakfus then not eat breakfus. n that giv me time to wallk throo Harlem in mornin to school mostly pepul goin to work faces faces iron brown black glas tears not jazzee Harlem downtwn sky opn blu legs for sun. I hit 116th n sometimes I walk up Madison and go aroun the park, the park nevr clean but green. Pas bafhouse. Bafhouse where faggits meet nekkid fuck each other. I wondr wat that be like, trees, after park liberry on 124th. I got libry card. Nex door libry is none house. Nones live ther serve god don fuck. Rhonda say you go in basement where nones live is babee bones. Rita say das a lie. She Kathlic.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  At length the cuckold, able to contain himself no longer, asked his wife, with an angry air, what she had said to the priest the morning she had confessed herself to him. She answered that she would not tell him, for that it was neither a just thing nor a seemly; whereupon, 'Vile woman that thou art!' cried he. 'In despite of thee I know what thou saidst to him, and needs must I know the priest of whom thou art so mightily enamoured and who, by means of his conjurations, lieth with thee every night; else will I slit thy weasand.' She replied that it was not true that she was enamoured of any priest. 'How?' cried the husband, 'Saidst thou not thus and thus to the priest who confessed thee?' And she, 'Thou couldst not have reported it better, not to say if he had told it thee, but if thou hadst been present; ay, I did tell him this.' 'Then,' rejoined the jealous man, 'tell me who is this priest, and that quickly.'

• From Another Country (1962)

  Yet, he had loved her once, he loved her still, he loved them all. He looked at the silent telephone, then looked over at Ida. “Want to come to a birthday party?” “No, thank you, sweetie. You want to educate your family, you get them some slides, you hear? Colored slides,” and she raised her eyes, mockingly, from the magazine. He laughed, but felt so guilty about Ida and about his mother that he was unable to let well enough alone. “I’d like to take you over with me one of these days. It might do them some good. They’re such cornballs.” “What might do them some good?” Her attention was still on her magazine. “Why—meeting you. They’re not bad people. They’re just very limited.” “I’ve told you, I’m not at all interested in the education of your family, Vivaldo.” Obscurely, deeply, he was stung. “Don’t you think there’s any hope for them?” “I don’t give a damn if there’s any hope for them or not. But I know that I am not about to be bugged by any more white jokers who still can’t figure out whether I’m human or not. If they don’t know, baby, sad on them, and I hope they drop dead slowly, in great pain.” “That’s not very Christian,” he said, lightly. But he was ready to drop it. “It’s the best I can do. I learned all my Christianity from white folks.” “Oh, shit,” he said, “here we go again.” The magazine came flying at him and hit him across the bridge of the nose. “What do you mean, you white motherfucker!” She mimicked him. “Here we go again! I’ve been living in this house for over a month and you still think it would be a big joke to take me home to see your mother! Goddammit, you think she’s a better woman than I am, you big, white, liberal asshole?” She caught her breath and started toward him, crouching, her hands on her hips. “Or do you think it would serve your whore of a mother right to bring your nigger whore home for her to see? Answer me, goddamnit!” “Will you shut up? You’re going to have the police down here in a minute.” “Yes, and when they come, I’m going to tell them you dragged me in off the streets and refused to pay me, yes, I am. You think I’m a whore, well, you treat me like a whore, goddamn your white prick, pay!” “Ida, it was a dumb thing to say, and I’m sorry, all right. I didn’t mean what you thought I meant. I wasn’t trying to put you down.”

• From The Decameron (1353)

  The scholar knew her weakness by her voice and eke saw, in part, her body all burnt up of the sun; wherefore and for her humble prayers there overcame him a little compassion of her; but none the less he answered, 'Wicked woman, thou shalt not die by my hands; nay, by thine own shalt thou die, an thou have a mind thereto; and thou shalt have of me as much water for the allaying of thy heat as I had fire of thee for the comforting of my cold. This much I sore regret that, whereas it behoved me heal the infirmity of my cold with the heat of stinking dung, that of thy heat will be healed with the coolth of odoriferous rose-water; and whereas I was like to lose both limbs and life, thou, flayed by this heat, wilt abide fair none otherwise than doth the snake, casting its old skin.' 'Alack, wretch that I am,' cried the lady, 'God give beauties on such wise acquired to those who wish me ill! But thou, that are more cruel than any wild beast, how couldst thou have the heart to torture me after this fashion? What more could I expect from thee or any other, if I had done all thy kinsfolk to death with the cruellest torments? Certes, meknoweth not what greater cruelty could be wreaked upon a traitor who had brought a whole city to slaughter than that whereto thou hast exposed me in causing me to be roasted of the sun and devoured of the flies and withal denying me a cup of water, whenas to murderers condemned of justice is oftentimes, as they go to their death, given to drink of wine, so but they ask it. Nay, since I see thee abide firm in thy savage cruelty and that my sufferance availeth not anywise to move thee, I will resign myself with patience to receive death, so God, whom I beseech to look with equitable eyes upon this thy dealing, may have mercy upon my soul.'

• From Little Women (1868)

  "Yes, Miss, but I don't believe he's seeable just yet." "Why not? Is he ill?" "La, no Miss, but he's had a scene with Mr. Laurie, who is in one of his tantrums about something, which vexes the old gentleman, so I dursn't go nigh him." "Where is Laurie?" "Shut up in his room, and he won't answer, though I've been a-tapping. I don't know what's to become of the dinner, for it's ready, and there's no one to eat it." "I'll go and see what the matter is. I'm not afraid of either of them." Up went Jo, and knocked smartly on the door of Laurie's little study. "Stop that, or I'll open the door and make you!" called out the young gentleman in a threatening tone. Jo immediately knocked again. The door flew open, and in she bounced before Laurie could recover from his surprise. Seeing that he really was out of temper, Jo, who knew how to manage him, assumed a contrite expression, and going artistically down upon her knees, said meekly, "Please forgive me for being so cross. I came to make it up, and can't go away till I have." "It's all right. Get up, and don't be a goose, Jo," was the cavalier reply to her petition. "Thank you, I will. Could I ask what's the matter? You don't look exactly easy in your mind." "I've been shaken, and I won't bear it!" growled Laurie indignantly. "Who did it?" demanded Jo. "Grandfather. If it had been anyone else I'd have..." And the injured youth finished his sentence by an energetic gesture of the right arm. "That's nothing. I often shake you, and you don't mind," said Jo soothingly. "Pooh! You're a girl, and it's fun, but I'll allow no man to shake me!" "I don't think anyone would care to try it, if you looked as much like a thundercloud as you do now. Why were you treated so?" "Just because I wouldn't say what your mother wanted me for. I'd promised not to tell, and of course I wasn't going to break my word." "Couldn't you satisfy your grandpa in any other way?" "No, he would have the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. I'd have told my part of the scrape, if I could without bringing Meg in. As I couldn't, I held my tongue, and bore the scolding till the old gentleman collared me. Then I bolted, for fear I should forget myself." "It wasn't nice, but he's sorry, I know, so go down and make up. I'll help you." "Hanged if I do! I'm not going to be lectured and pummelled by everyone, just for a bit of a frolic. I was sorry about Meg, and begged pardon like a man, but I won't do it again, when I wasn't in the wrong." "He didn't know that." "He ought to trust me, and not act as if I was a baby.

• From Little Women (1868)

  The set in which they found themselves was composed of English, and Amy was compelled to walk decorously through a cotillion, feeling all the while as if she could dance the tarantella with relish. Laurie resigned her to the 'nice little boy', and went to do his duty to Flo, without securing Amy for the joys to come, which reprehensible want of forethought was properly punished, for she immediately engaged herself till supper, meaning to relent if he then gave any signs penitence. She showed him her ball book with demure satisfaction when he strolled instead of rushed up to claim her for the next, a glorious polka redowa. But his polite regrets didn't impose upon her, and when she galloped away with the Count, she saw Laurie sit down by her aunt with an actual expression of relief. That was unpardonable, and Amy took no more notice of him for a long while, except a word now and then when she came to her chaperon between the dances for a necessary pin or a moment's rest. Her anger had a good effect, however, for she hid it under a smiling face, and seemed unusually blithe and brilliant. Laurie's eyes followed her with pleasure, for she neither romped nor sauntered, but danced with spirit and grace, making the delightsome pastime what it should be. He very naturally fell to studying her from this new point of view, and before the evening was half over, had decided that 'little Amy was going to make a very charming woman'. It was a lively scene, for soon the spirit of the social season took possession of everyone, and Christmas merriment made all faces shine, hearts happy, and heels light. The musicians fiddled, tooted, and banged as if they enjoyed it, everybody danced who could, and those who couldn't admired their neighbors with uncommon warmth. The air was dark with Davises, and many Joneses gamboled like a flock of young giraffes. The golden secretary darted through the room like a meteor with a dashing French-woman who carpeted the floor with her pink satin train. The serene Teuton found the supper-table and was happy, eating steadily through the bill of fare, and dismayed the garcons by the ravages he committed. But the Emperor's friend covered himself with glory, for he danced everything, whether he knew it or not, and introduced impromptu pirouettes when the figures bewildered him. The boyish abandon of that stout man was charming to behold, for though he 'carried weight', he danced like an India-rubber ball. He ran, he flew, he pranced, his face glowed, his bald head shown, his coattails waved wildly, his pumps actually twinkled in the air, and when the music stopped, he wiped the drops from his brow, and beamed upon his fellow men like a French Pickwick without glasses.

• From Another Country (1962)

  “I’m not out of my mind,” Rufus said, “but you are. Where you think you taking Leona?” “I got no place to go,” Leona muttered. “Well, you can stay at my place until you find some place to go. I’m not leaving you here.” Rufus threw back his head and laughed. Vivaldo and Leona both turned to watch him. Rufus cried to the ceiling, “He’s going to come to my house and walk out with my girl and he thinks this poor nigger’s just going to sit and let him do it. Ain’t this a bitch?” He fell over on his side, still laughing. Vivaldo shouted, “For Christ’s sake, Rufus! Rufus!” Rufus stopped laughing and sat straight up. “What? Who the hell do you think you’re kidding? I know you only got one bed in your place!” “Oh, Rufus,” Leona wailed, “Vivaldo’s only trying to help.” “You shut up,” he said instantly, and looked at her. “Everybody ain’t a animal,” she muttered. “You mean, like me?” She said nothing. Vivaldo watched them both. “You mean, like me, bitch? Or you mean, like you?” “If I’m a animal,” she flared—perhaps she was emboldened by the presence of Vivaldo—“I’d like you to tell me who made me one. Just tell me that?” “Why, your husband did, you bitch. You told me yourself he had a thing on him like a horse. You told me yourself how he did you—he kept telling you how he had the biggest thing in Dixie, black or white. And you said you couldn’t stand it. Ha-ha. That’s one of the funniest things I ever heard.” “I guess,” she said, wearily, after a silence, “I told you a lot of things I shouldn’t have.” Rufus snorted. “I guess you did.” He said—to Vivaldo, the room, the river—“it was her husband ruined this bitch. Your husband and all them funky niggers screwed you in the Georgia bushes. That’s why your husband threw you out. Why don’t you tell the truth? I wouldn’t have to beat you if you’d tell the truth.” He grinned at Vivaldo. “Man, this chick can’t get enough”—and he broke off, staring at Leona. “Rufus,” said Vivaldo, trying to be calm, “I don’t know what you’re putting down. I think you must be crazy. You got a great chick, who’d go all the way for you—and you know it—and you keep coming on with this Gone with the Wind crap. What’s the matter with your head, baby?” He tried to smile. “Baby, please don’t do this. Please?” Rufus said nothing. He sat down on the bed, in the position in which he had been sitting when Vivaldo arrived. “Come on, Leona,” said Vivaldo at last and Rufus stood up, looking at them both with a little smile, with hatred. “I’m just going to take her away for a few days, so you can both cool down. There’s no point in going on like this.” “Sir Walter Raleigh—with a hard on,” Rufus sneered.

• From Push (1996)

  In the morning over a breakfast of boiled eggs and salmon cakes that reminds me of sardines, he asks me if the floor isn't hard. The sardines remind me how swift and long his arms are. The sun coming through his window is a blood red spot that covers the sky. So I step out on the street that morning, on my own, like Huck Finn or some shit, it's been like that ever since— Harlem, The Village, The Bronx, Queens— I know my way around. I bartend, drive cab, do maintenance. I was super over on 126th and Madison for three years. But I want more than pushing a mutherfuck-ing broom, or slooshing fire juice to other broom pushers. So I came back to school. I knew from day one I should be in G.E.D. class but I know I never woulda wrote this story with those dickheads in there. I never would have stayed. My face? My eye, ear? Ms Rain say you might want to write about that? Write about six grown men, I'm 19: by then. What can I say except I fought back. And when it's six men that means you put your fist up and try to hit at least one of 'em 'fore they kill you. I'm with Rita, on that some things don't need to be written about. For example, how it sounds when a fist with two hundred pounds behind it connects solidly with your eye. Or the way concrete does not yield to lip cheek nostril when they meet. And a razor, the closest thing it feels like is extreme cold. Cold so cold it's hot, a laser separating. I woke up in Harlem Hospital. Like Mama one eye messed up ear too. But the Bible did not save me. I saved myself. Am still saving myself. That was the second time men took me to school. Only time I don't have a gun on me now is when I go to sleep, even then, Mary-Mae, as I call my rod, is not far away.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  [Footnote 307: _i.e._ of the comical fashion of the Cadgers.] THE SEVENTH STORY [Day the Sixth] MADAM FILIPPA, BEING FOUND BY HER HUSBAND WITH A LOVER OF HERS AND BROUGHT TO JUSTICE, DELIVERETH HERSELF WITH A PROMPT AND PLEASANT ANSWER AND CAUSETH MODIFY THE STATUTE Fiammetta was now silent and all laughed yet at the novel argument used by Scalza for the ennoblement over all of the Cadgers, when the queen enjoined Filostrato to tell and he accordingly began to say, "It is everywise a fine thing, noble ladies, to know how to speak well, but I hold it yet goodlier to know how to do it whereas necessity requireth it, even as a gentlewoman, of whom I purpose to entertain you, knew well how to do on such wise that not only did she afford her hearers matter for mirth and laughter, but did herself loose from the toils of an ignominious death, as you shall presently hear. There was, then, aforetime, in the city of Prato, a statute in truth no less blameworthy than cruel, which, without making any distinction, ordained that any woman found by her husband in adultery with any her lover should be burnt, even as she who should be discovered to have sold her favours for money. What while this statute was in force, it befell that a noble and beautiful lady, by name Madam Filippa, who was of a singularly amorous complexion, was one night found by Rinaldo de' Pugliesi her husband, in her own chamber in the arms of Lazzerino de' Guazzagliotri, a noble and handsome youth of that city, whom she loved even as herself. Rinaldo, seeing this, was sore enraged and scarce contained himself from falling upon them and slaying them; and but that he feared for himself, an he should ensue the promptings of his anger, he had certainly done it. However, he forbore from this, but could not refrain from seeking of the law of Prato that which it was not permitted him to accomplish with his own hand, to wit, the death of his wife. Having, therefore, very sufficient evidence to prove the lady's default, no sooner was the day come than, without taking other counsel, he lodged an accusation against her and caused summon her before the provost.

• From Jesus and His Jewish Influences (2015)

  51Lecture 8—Jews and Greek Rule: The Heliodorus AffairJesus and His Jewish Influences the Jewish community itself. This was not imposed on the Jews by the Greek king. ●● Furthermore, there is no reference in 2 Maccabees to any Jewish opposition to Jason’s actions. None of the texts we have accuse Jason of altering the cult in the Jerusalem Temple or prohibiting the normal practices of Judaism. Thus, even though Jewish law was no longer the law of the land, the Jews were still free to worship the God of Israel in the Jerusalem Temple and to live according to the Torah. Jason’s high priesthood lasted from 175 to 172 B.C.—a defining moment in the history of the Jews in Judea. Tax Farming ●● Under the Ptolemies, taxes were collected through a system of tax farming. Just like the office of the priest, the office of tax collector could be bought and sold. Thus, the system of tax farming led to cooperation between the kings and the wealthiest families, because only the wealthiest families could bid on the office. But the most significant consequence of tax farming was that it created an enormous burden on the people—especially on the poor. ●● Of course, the point of being a tax collector was to enrich oneself. Tax collectors—or tax farmers—lined their pockets by collecting more and more taxes, above and beyond the amount that they were permitted. In fact, the phrase “tax collectors and sinners” occurs nine times in the New Testament. ●● It was not just the Greek successors of Alexander the Great who used a system of tax farming; in fact, from the time of the republic, the Romans did so, as well. Taxes were collected by men called publicani— public contractors who supplied the Roman army, collected port duties, and oversaw public building projects. By the 2 nd and 1st centuries B.C., most of Rome’s taxes came from the provinces.

• From The Elementary Forms of the Religious Life (1915)

  But if the objection of Spencer does not have the decisive value which its author gives it, it is equally true that the animist theory can draw no authority from the confusions which children seem to make. When we hear a child angrily apostrophize an object which he has hit against, we conclude that he thinks of it as a conscious being like himself; but that is interpreting his words and acts very badly. In reality, he is quite a stranger to the very complicated reasoning attributed to him. If he lays the blame on the table which has hurt him, it is not because he supposes it animated and intelligent, but because it has hurt him. His anger, once aroused by the pain, must overflow; so it looks for something upon which to discharge itself, and naturally turns toward the thing which has provoked it, even though this has no effect. The action of an adult in similar circumstances is often as slightly reasonable. When we are violently irritated, we feel the need of inveighing, of destroying, though we attribute no conscious ill-will to the objects upon which we vent our anger. There is even so little confusion that when the emotion of a child is calmed, he can very well distinguish a chair from a person: he does not act in at all the same way towards the two. It is a similar reason which explains his tendency to treat his playthings as if they were living beings. It is his extremely intense need of playing which thus finds a means of expressing itself, just as in the other case the violent sentiments caused by pain created an object out of nothing. In order that he may consciously play with his jumping-jack, he imagines it a living person. This illusion is the easier for him because imagination is his sovereign mistress; he thinks almost entirely with images, and we know how pliant images are, bending themselves with docility before every exigency of the will. But he is so little deceived by his own fiction that he would be the first to be surprised if it suddenly became a reality, and his toy bit him![129]

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Pyrrhus, accordingly, began to await what the lady should do, and Nicostratus having, a few days after, made, as he oftentimes used to do, a great dinner to certain gentlemen, Madam Lydia, whenas the tables were cleared away, came forth of her chamber, clad in green samite and richly bedecked, and entered the saloon where the guests were. There, in the sight of Pyrrhus and of all the rest, she went up to the perch, whereon was the hawk that Nicostratus held so dear, and cast it loose, as she would set it on her hand; then, taking it by the jesses, she dashed it against the wall and killed it; whereupon Nicostratus cried out at her, saying, 'Alack, wife, what hast thou done?' She answered him nothing, but, turning to the gentlemen who had eaten with him, she said to them, 'Gentlemen, I should ill know how to avenge myself on a king who did me a despite, an I dared not take my wreak of a hawk. You must know that this bird hath long robbed me of all the time which should of men be accorded to the pleasuring of the ladies; for that no sooner is the day risen than Nicostratus is up and drest and away he goeth a-horseback, with his hawk on his fist, to the open plains, to see him fly, whilst I, such as you see me, abide in bed alone and ill-content; wherefore I have many a time had a mind to do that which I have now done, nor hath aught hindered me therefrom but that I waited to do it in the presence of gentlemen who would be just judges in my quarrel, as methinketh you will be.' The gentlemen, hearing this and believing her affection for Nicostratus to be no otherwise than as her words denoted, turned all to the latter, who was angered, and said, laughing, 'Ecod, how well hath the lady done to avenge herself of her wrong by the death of the hawk!' Then, with divers of pleasantries upon the subject (the lady being now gone back to her chamber), they turned Nicostratus his annoy into laughter; whilst Pyrrhus, seeing all this, said in himself, 'The lady hath given a noble beginning to my happy loves; God grant she persevere!'

• From Another Country (1962)

  I simply am not terribly attracted to any of those literary colonies you want us to become a part of—–” Richard’s eyes turned as dark as deep water. “Cass doesn’t like writers,” he said, lightly, to Eric, “not if they make a living at it, anyway. She thinks writers should never cease starving and whoring around, like our good friend, Vivaldo. That’s fine, boy, that’s really being responsible and artistic. But all the rest of us, trying to love a woman and raise a family and make some loot—we’re whores.” She was very pale. “I have never said anything at all like that.” “No? There are lots of ways of saying”—he mimicked her—“things like that. You’ve said it a thousand times. You must think I’m dumb, chicken.” He turned again to Eric, who stood near the window, wishing he could fly out of it. “If she was stuck with a guy like Vivaldo—” “Leave Vivaldo out of this! What has he got to do with it?” Richard gave a surprisingly merry laugh, and repeated, “If she was stuck with a guy like that, maybe you wouldn’t hear some pissing and moaning! Oh, what a martyrdom! And how she’d love it!” He took a swallow of his drink and crossed the room toward her. “And you know why? You want to know why?” There was a silence. She lifted her enormous eyes to meet his. “Because you’re just like all the other American cunts. You want a guy you can feel sorry for, you love him as long as he’s helpless. Then you can pitch in, as you love to say, you can be his helper. Helper!” He threw back his head and laughed. “Then, one fine day, the guy feels chilly between his legs and feels around for his cock and balls and finds she’s helped herself to them and locked them in the linen closet.” He finished his drink and, roughly, caught his breath. His voice changed, becoming almost tender with sorrow. “That’s the way it is, isn’t it, sugar? You don’t like me now as well as you did once.” She looked terribly weary; her skin seemed to have loosened. She put one hand lightly on his arm. “No,” she said, “that’s not the way it is.” Then a kind of fury shook her and tears came to her eyes. “You haven’t any right to say such things to me; you’re blaming me for something I haven’t anything to do with at all!” He reached out to touch her shoulder; she moved away. “You’d better go, Eric, this can’t be much fun for you.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Tofano was nowise moved by these words from his besotted intent; wherefore quoth she to him, 'Harkye now, I can no longer brook this thy fashery, God pardon it thee! Look thou cause lay up[350] this distaff of mine that I leave here.' So saying, the night being so dark that one might scarce see other by the way, she went up to the well and taking a great stone that lay thereby, cried out, 'God pardon me!' and let it drop into the water. The stone, striking the water, made a very great noise, which when Tofano heard, he verily believed that she had cast herself in; wherefore, snatching up the bucket and the rope, he rushed out of the house and ran to the well to succour her. The lady, who had hidden herself near the door, no sooner saw him run to the well than she slipped into the house and locked herself in; then, getting her to the window, 'You should water your wine, whenas you drink it,' quoth she, 'and not after and by night.' Tofano, hearing this, knew himself to have been fooled and returned to the door, but could get no admission and proceeded to bid her open to him; but she left speaking softly, as she had done till then, and began, well nigh at a scream, to say, 'By Christ His Cross, tiresome sot that thou art, thou shalt not enter here to-night; I cannot brook these thy fashions any longer; needs must I let every one see what manner of man thou art and at what hour thou comest home anights.' Tofano, on his side, flying into a rage, began to rail at her and bawl; whereupon the neighbours, hearing the clamour, arose, both men and women, and coming to the windows, asked what was to do. The lady answered, weeping, 'It is this wretch of a man, who still returneth to me of an evening, drunken, or falleth asleep about the taverns and after cometh home at this hour; the which I have long suffered, but, it availing me not and I being unable to put up with it longer, I have bethought me to shame him therefor by locking him out of doors, to see and he will mend himself thereof.' [Footnote 350: _Riporre_, possibly a mistake for _riportare_, to fetch back.]

• From Jesus and His Jewish Influences (2015)

  Lecture 9—Desolating Sacrilege and the Maccabean Revolt Lecture 9 Desolating Sacrilege and the Maccabean Revolt I n 167 B.C., Antiochus IV decreed “that all should be one people and that all should give up their particular customs.” The Jerusalem Temple was rededicated to the worship of the Greek god Zeus, and the practice of Judaism was now outlawed—a crime punishable by death. Antiochus IV’s edict sparked the outbreak of a Jewish revolt, led by the Maccabees. In this lecture, we cover the turbulent period in Judea before and during the Maccabean Revolt. We conclude by considering the Book of Daniel, which was written around the time of the revolt, and examine the term “desolating sacrilege,” which occurs in Daniel and is repeated in Jesus’s prophesies about the destruction of the Temple of Jerusalem. The Decree of Antiochus IV ●● In 172 B.C., Jason sent Menelaus to Antiochus IV to make a payment in order to maintain his position as high priest in the Temple of Jerusalem. However, Menelaus betrayed Jason and secured the high priesthood for himself, outbidding Jason by 300 talents of silver. Menelaus was from a priestly family, but he was not from the Zadokite line—the family that had traditionally held the high priesthood in the Jerusalem Temple. The Zadokites lost control of the high priesthood, and Jason was driven out of Jerusalem. ●● According to 1 Maccabees, Antiochus IV issued a decree to all his people, in which he directed them to: follow customs strange to the land, to forbid burnt offerings and sacrifices and drink offerings in the sanctuary, to profane Sabbaths and festivals, to defile the sanctuary and the priests, to build altars and sacred precincts for idols, to sacrifice swine and other unclean animals, and to leave their sons uncircumcised. They were to make themselves abominable by everything unclean and profane so that they would forget the law and change all the ordinances. Whoever does not obey the command of the King shall die.

• From Another Country (1962)

  “Oh, everything’s fine now,” she said, and made a grotesquely girlish little skip, holding heavily onto Lincoln’s hand. “Dick doesn’t care much about soul-searching, but he’s good at what he cares about.” The man she thus described moved stiffly beside her, his face a ruddy mask of uncertainty, clearly determined to do the right thing, whatever the right thing might prove to be. “Come and have a drink with us,” Jane said. They were standing on the corner, in the lights spilling outward from a bar. The light illumined and horribly distorted her face, so that her eyes looked like coals of fire and her mouth stretched joylessly back upon the gums. “For old times’ sake.” “No, thank you,” he said. “I’m going on home. I’ve had a long, hard day.” “Rushing home to your chick?” “Good thing to rush home to, if you’ve got one,” Dick Lincoln said, putting his pink, nerveless hand on Jane’s shoulder. 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.

• From Another Country (1962)

  He sighed, telling himself to drop the subject or change it. But he said, “I just don’t see why it should matter to you, that’s all. So he likes a roll in the hay with a man. So what?” “He wanted a roll in the hay with my brother, too,” she said. “He wanted to make him as sick as he is.” “If anything happened between Eric and your brother, it didn’t happen because Eric threw him down and raped him. Let me cool you, honey, you don’t know as much about men as you think you know.” She turned on him a small, grim smile. “If anything happened. You’re a damn liar, and a coward, too.” He looked at her; for that moment he hated her. “Why do you say that?” “Because you know damn well what happened. It’s only that you don’t want to know—” “Ida, it was none of my damn business, I never talked about it with Rufus or with Eric. Why should I have?” “Vivaldo, you haven’t got to talk about what’s happening to know what’s happening. Rufus never talked to me about what was happening to him—but I knew just the same.” He was silent for a moment. Then, “You’re never going to forgive me, are you? for your brother’s death.” Then she, too, was silent. He said, “I loved your brother, too, Ida. You don’t believe that, I know, but I did. But he was just a man, baby. He wasn’t a saint.” “I never said he was a saint. But I’m black, too, and I know how white people treat black boys and girls. They think you’re something for them to wipe their pricks on.” He saw the lights of the movie theater three blocks down the Avenue. The summer streets were full. His throat closed and his eyes began to burn. “After all this time we’ve been together,” he said, at last, “you still think that?” “Our being together doesn’t change the world, Vivaldo.” “It does,” he said, “for me.” “That,” she said, “is because you’re white.” He felt, suddenly, that he was going to scream, right there in the crowded streets, or close his heavy fingers around her neck. The lights of the movie theater wavered before him, and the sidewalk seemed to tilt. “You stop that,” he said, in a voice which he did not recognize. “You stop that. You stop trying to kill me. It’s not my fault I’m white. It’s not my fault you’re black. It’s not my fault he’s dead.” He threw back his head, sharply, to scatter away his tears, to bring the lights into focus, to make the sidewalk even. And in another voice, he said, “He’s dead, sweetheart, but we’re alive. We’re alive, and I love you, I love you. Please don’t try to kill me.” And then, “Don’t you love me? Do you love me, Ida? Do you?”