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)

  Brief, many were the lady's words and sore her complaining. However, at last, Ricciardo, bethinking himself that, an he let her go in that belief, much ill might ensue thereof, determined to discover himself and undeceive her; wherefore, catching her in his arms and holding her fast, so she might not get away, he said, 'Sweet my soul, be not angered; that which I could not have of you by simply loving you, Love hath taught me to obtain by practice; and I am your Ricciardo.' Catella, hearing this and knowing him by the voice, would have thrown herself incontinent out of bed, but could not; whereupon she offered to cry out; but Ricciardo stopped her mouth with one hand and said, 'Madam, this that hath been may henceforth on nowise be undone, though you should cry all the days of your life; and if you cry out or cause this ever anywise to be known of any one, two things will come thereof; the one (which should no little concern you) will be that your honour and fair fame will be marred, for that, albeit you may avouch that I brought you hither by practice, I shall say that it is not true, nay, that I caused you come hither for monies and gifts that I promised you, whereof for that I gave you not so largely as you hoped, you waxed angry and made all this talk and this outcry; and you know that folk are more apt to credit ill than good, wherefore I shall more readily be believed than you. Secondly, there will ensue thereof a mortal enmity between your husband and myself, and it may as well happen that I shall kill him as he me, in which case you are never after like to be happy or content. Wherefore, heart of my body, go not about at once to dishonour yourself and to cast your husband and myself into strife and peril. You are not the first woman, nor will you be the last, who hath been deceived, nor have I in this practised upon you to bereave you of your own, but for the exceeding love that I bear you and am minded ever to bear you and to be your most humble servant. And although it is long since I and all that I possess or can or am worth have been yours and at your service, henceforward I purpose that they shall be more than ever so. Now, you are well advised in other things and so I am certain you will be in this.'

• From The Decameron (1353)

  All who were at the inquisitor's table fell a-laughing; but the latter, feeling the hit at the broth-swilling[58] hypocrisy of himself and his brethren, was mightily incensed, and but that he had gotten blame for that which he had already done, he would have saddled him with another prosecution, for that with a laughable speech he had rebuked him and his brother good-for-noughts; wherefore, of his despite, he bade him thenceforward do what most pleased him and not come before him again." [Footnote 58: Syn. gluttonous (_brodajuola_).] THE SEVENTH STORY [Day the First] BERGAMINO, WITH A STORY OF PRIMASSO AND THE ABBOT OF CLUNY, COURTEOUSLY REBUKETH A FIT OF PARSIMONY NEWLY COME TO MESSER CANE DELLA SCALA Emilia's pleasantness and her story moved the queen and all the rest to laugh and applaud the rare conceit of this new-fangled crusader. Then, after the laughter had subsided and all were silent again, Filostrato, whose turn it was to tell, began to speak on this wise: "It is a fine thing, noble ladies, to hit a mark that never stirreth; but it is well-nigh miraculous if, when some unwonted thing appeareth of a sudden, it be forthright stricken of an archer. The lewd and filthy life of the clergy, in many things as it were a constant mark for malice, giveth without much difficulty occasion to all who have a mind to speak of, to gird at and rebuke it; wherefore, albeit the worthy man, who pierced the inquisitor to the quick touching the hypocritical charity of the friars, who give to the poor that which it should behove them cast to the swine or throw away, did well, I hold him much more to be commended of whom, the foregoing tale moving me thereto, I am to speak and who with a quaint story rebuked Messer Cane della Scala, a magnificent nobleman, of a sudden and unaccustomed niggardliness newly appeared in him, figuring, in the person of another, that which he purposed to say to him concerning themselves; the which was on this wise.

• From Macho Sluts (1988)

  This system generates relatively little selfish, individual, direct, genital pleasure. Instead, it generates abstract pleasure, vicarious pleasure, pleasure-of-social-position, the cud-chewing pleasure of belonging, of being fenced into a pasture with other cud-chewers, the resentful pleasures of martyrdom or the intrusive pleasures of overseeing and bullying others (and the attendant anxious pleasure of anticipating their revenge). Force is not a part of the province of sadism and masochism, not part of the territory of leather and latex, bondage and discipline. It is normal. Coercion is an accepted part of daily life for most people. And most people are unwilling to relinquish the threat of violence, of bodily harm, of stigma, of forced reproduction, of curfew and limited movement, of a vague danger that lies in wait to punish the person who is too sexually different, too adventurous, to enforce their morés. Until all deviants are no longer hounded, there will not be such a thing as vanilla sex, if by that you mean a sexuality free of compulsion. And the closest you will be able to come to sexual freedom of choice will be in the territories of the erotic minorities, which you must struggle hard to locate and gain admission to, which you must work hard to maintain a membership in, and which takes even more effort if you want to expand the little bit of territory your community has. If you don’t believe we choose to do S/M, you aren’t using the term “consent” in any meaningful way, but rather as a synonym for “mature,” “socially acceptable,” and “politically correct.” What we choose to do with our freedom may appall you, but it is none of your business. If you are prepared to do anything at all to compel us to make other choices, or even make it more difficult for us to wear our leather in public, buy S/M equipment and literature, and meet one another, are you really one of the good guys? Or just another vice cop without a badge? When attempts are made to keep people from reading about S/M or hearing us speak out, or even associating with us, it isn’t knowledge about S/M that is being banned or controlled. It is knowledge of itself that the supposedly egalitarian, democratic, vanilla majority fears. If someone believes that there is nothing wrong with the object of their desire, and yet is willing to repeatedly postpone obtaining it, to sacrifice it, to do without it, or trade it for a romance or a better job or a good reputation, they are bound to be angry when we insist on having our deviant desire, without guilt, apologies, or explanations. Some people cannot be trusted with a helpless body.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  'Alack, father mine,' answered she, 'that which aileth me is none other than yonder God-accursed friend of yours, of whom I complained to you the other day, for that methinketh he was born for my especial torment and to make me do a thing, such that I should never be glad again nor ever after dare to seat myself at your feet.' 'How?' cried the friar. 'Hath he not given over annoying thee?' 'No, indeed,' answered she; 'nay, since I complained to you of him, as if of despite, maybe taking it ill that I should have done so, for every once he used to pass before my house, I verily believe he hath passed seven times. And would to God he were content with passing and spying upon me! Nay, he is grown so bold and so malapert that but yesterday he despatched a woman to me at home with his idle tales and toys and sent me a purse and a girdle, as if I had not purses and girdles galore; the which I took and take so ill that I believe, but for my having regard to the sin of it and after for the love of you, I had played the devil. However, I contained myself and would not do or say aught whereof I should not first have let you know. Nay, I had already returned the purse and the girdle to the baggage who brought them, that she might carry them back to him, and had given her a rough dismissal, but after, fearing she might keep them for herself and tell him that I had accepted them, as I hear women of her fashion do whiles, I called her back and took them, full of despite, from her hands and have brought them to you, so you may return them to him and tell him I want none of his trash, for that, thanks to God and my husband, I have purses and girdles enough to smother him withal. Moreover, if hereafter he desist not from this, I tell you, as a father, you must excuse me, but I will tell it, come what may, to my husband and my brothers; for I had far liefer he should brook an affront, if needs he must, than that I should suffer blame for him; wherefore let him look to himself.' So saying, still weeping sore, she pulled out from under her surcoat a very handsome and rich purse and a quaint and costly girdle and threw them into the lap of the friar, who, fully crediting that which she told him and incensed beyond measure, took them and said to her, 'Daughter, I marvel not that thou art provoked at these doings, nor can I blame thee therefor; but I much commend thee for following my counsel in the matter.

• From The Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  WOES OF THIRD CLASS PASSEN- GERS At Burdwan we came face to face with the hardships that a third class passenger has to go through even in securing his ticket.’Third class tickets are not booked so early,’ we were told. I went to the Station Master, though that too was a difficult business. Someone kindly directly me to where he was, and I represented to him our difficulty. He also made the same reply. As soon as the booking window opened, I went to purchase the tickets. But it was no easy thing to get them. Might was right, and passengers, who were forward and indifferent to others, coming one after another, continued to push me out. I was therefore about the last of the first crowd to get a ticket. The train arrived, and getting into it was another trial. There was a free exchange of abuse and pushes between passengers already in the train and those trying to get in. We ran up and down the platform, but were everywhere met with the same reply: ‘No room here.’ I went to the guard. He said, ‘You must try to get in where you can or take the next train.’ ‘But I have urgent business,’ I respectfully replied. He had no time to listen to me. I was disconcerted. I told Maganlal to get in wherever possible, and I got into an inter-class compartment with my wife. The guard saw us getting in. At Asansol station he came to charge us excess fares. I said to him: ‘It was your duty to find us room. We could not get any, and so we are sitting here. If you can accommodate us in a third class compartment, we shall be only too glad to go there.’ ‘You may not argue with me,’ said the guard. ‘I cannot accommodate you. You must pay the excess fare, or get out.’

• From The Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  MORE HARDSHIPS The train reached Charlestown in the morning. There was no railway, in those days, between Charlestown and Johannesburg, but only a stage- coach, which halted at Standerton for the night en route. I possessed a ticket for the coach, which was not cancelled by the break of the journey at Maritzburg for a day; besides, Abdulla Sheth had sent a wire to the coach agent at Charlestown. But the agent only needed a pretext for putting me off, and so, when he discovered me to be a stranger, he said, ‘Your ticket is cancelled.’ I gave him the proper reply. The reason at the back of his mind was not want of accommodation, but quite another. Passengers had to be accommodated inside the coach, but as I was regarded as a ‘coolie’ and looked a stranger, it would be proper, thought the ‘leader’, as the white man in charge of the coach was called, not to seat me with the white passengers. There were seats on either side of the coachbox. The leader sat on one of these as a rule. Today he sat inside and gave me his seat. I knew it was sheer injustice and an insult, but I thought it better to pocket it, I could not have forced myself inside, and if I had raised a protest, the coach would have gone off without me. This would have meant the loss of another day, and Heaven only knows what would have happened the next day. So, much as I fretted within myself, I prudently sat next the coachman. At about three o’clock the coach reached Pardekoph. Now the leader desired to sit where I was seated, as he wanted to smoke and possibly to have some fresh air. So he took a piece of dirty sack-cloth from the driver, spread it on the footboard and, addressing me said, ‘Sami, you sit on this, I want to sit near the driver,.’ The insult was more than I could bear. In fear and trembling I said to him, ‘It was you who seated me here, though I should have been accommodated

• From The Incendiaries (2018)

  Bleach, I said. For millennia, women have tried to induce home abortions. They’ve drunk bleach, hot lye—even the Bible gives tips about this. Quinine. Hippocrates advises a prostitute to jump up and down. I told Phoebe about a high-school friend, Stu, who’d punched his knocked-up girlfriend in the stomach until she fainted. She asked to be kicked down the stairs. He’d done it, blinded with tears. The abortion she wanted was too expensive, and she had Baptist parents she couldn’t tell. Once, a local wit, calling in to a radio show, was asked to explain what people did for fun in Carmenita, California. Get pregnant, he said. The kind of people she, Phoebe, knew would always be able to obtain abortions, while fifteen-year-old children in towns like mine spewed—what? Phoebe shook, laughing. No, it’s just, Will, you researched this. The quinine. You looked it up, getting all these points in line. Tell me why you picked Christians, I said. Excuse me? You chose the one set of beliefs I wasn’t going to be able to stand. I’m asking if it was on purpose, if it’s something I did. I can’t fight tonight, she said. She pushed away the tea. It sloshed in the cup, without spilling. I’m so tired. I don’t know what’s happened, why you’ve turned against Jejah, but, please, let’s go to bed. We’ll argue in the morning, if you like. I looked in the news, I said. From the spring before last, in Yanji, China. I searched headlines. John Leal’s a U.S. citizen. If he’d been abducted by North Korean agents, his organization would have reported it. It would be a big fucking deal. “Edwards student missing, presumed kidnapped.” But there’s nothing, Phoebe. I couldn’t find a single mention of him. Will— I think he’s lying. Well, I don’t. If you were taking up, oh, Buddhism, I wouldn’t mind. If you’d decided to collect old coins— Oh, she said, leaning back. Old coins. Will, if that’s what you want, I’ll be less of a hobbyist. I have to stop living in sin. No, let me finish. I’ve waited for God to hand me a revelation, but I don’t think that’s how He loves us. Hold on. This isn’t about you, Will. I’ve given it a lot of thought. If I did what people here do—if I chased high-paid jobs, and I wrote fifteen-page papers on Milton, I have no idea who that would help. But if I could find out what I am. If I have a soul. I’ve thought about what St. Augustine said, that we have to beg the Lord to know Him. It wasn’t until the 18th century that the church established belief as a precondition of Christian faith—if I act as though I believe, maybe I’ll also experience the divine. If I don’t, I’ll have tried. Isn’t that what you did?

• From Macho Sluts (1988)

  It seems that the sex debate in the women’s movement is right back where it started—the only people who dare criticize anti-porn crusades are perverts, because we are the ones most at risk and we are the ones with nothing to lose. Meanwhile, it’s business as usual back in Women’s Studies and the ACLU. The written word—thus far—receives protection under the First Amendment in this country, even if the words are about “violent” sex. But in the rest of the English language market—England, Canada, Australia, New Zealand—no such protection applies. It may be very difficult for a citizen of any Commonwealth country to buy a copy of this book. And we should remember that censorship is not always a matter of state intervention. It can be a matter of which books are ordered by a bookstore, in what quantities, and how they are displayed; which books are reviewed (and how); what your friends’ reactions are when they see you own a particular work; how far publishers dare go with their next book. Which brings us back to the question I asked earlier. If somebody does not want you to read this book, why is that? Because it goes beyond customary limits of candor? In other words, because it is a little too honest? What are they afraid of? No matter how poetic I am, some people will never be able to see anything beautiful about the authoritarian set of a woman’s broad shoulders inside a leather jacket that is well broken in, or the curve of a submissive’s back when she dares to kneel and arch her shoulders for the lash. The prospect of a human body being rendered helpless, put under slowly increasing stress, so that the maximum amount of sensation can be run through skin, nerves, and muscles, will always seem horrifying to some readers, not a fascinating attempt to bring out the body’s stamina and grace. Do these people hate me, do they want sadomasochists to cease to exist, because of a different notion about what constitutes the good and the beautiful? Sadomasochists are immensely useful as a metaphor for evil, for violence, for prejudice, for hate—and that metaphor is a big lie; it is nothing but projection. It is the notion of consent that the rest of the world finds so abhorrent. It is the notion of sexual choice. It is the notion of having an absolute right to set one’s own limits. The majority prefers compulsory sexual arrangements, wherein people can be labeled according to race, age, class, and gender, and plugged in and made use of, performing as suburban housewives or street hookers, young work-a-daddies and pimps, street kids and their clients, incest victims and their abusers, mistresses and their keepers, unwed mothers, closeted choice, lesbians and gay men, everybody a guard or a prisoner, with no safe word, no negotiation.

• From Macho Sluts (1988)

  I know those kinda faggots inside and out. I scare them shitless, but they’ll do anything to get next to me. And I don’t care where they wear their keys, they lick my boots and my dick and my asshole and anything else I tell them to put in their mouths for as long as I want them to, that’s just the way I like it. You will, too. And if you don’t jump fast enough, I know how to persuade you. A little pain can make people change their minds awful damn fast. And if you’re working on somebody who gets off on pain, who wants it to hurt, it works even better, because they get so turned on they can’t think straight. Hell, I didn’t even have to hurt you to get you to suck my cock in the squad car. What do you figure you’ll do if I get you in a corner and make it hurt real bad? Huh?” “You really are something else. You make it with gay men, huh? Leathermen, no less. Then why do you hate lesbians?” His smile was ugly. “I never said I hated lesbians, honey. I said I have a thing for them.” He patted his crotch. “Right here. I just gotta find a way to persuade them to cooperate. Fags come around quick. They have good sense. They like cock. But I never had a dyke before. I saw you walkin’ down the street and you got me hard, that’s all.” She began to kick, strike out, and scream. As they wrestled her down to the floor, her T-shirt got ripped. She had embarrassed them before, so this time they were more careful. They hit her hard and fast, and gave her no opportunity to surprise them. In a depressingly short time, her face was being rubbed against the coarse, filthy carpet, and their boots were pressing into her neck and the small of her back. “So what are they here for?” she raged. “What are they? Pigs in training?” “Joe and Mike? They’re my good buddies. My protégés, sugartits. And they’ve been working awful hard tonight with damned little to show for it. So you’re going to provide some overtime compensation. Get on your knees.” Bruised and shaking, she complied. “Take your top off. Oh, you do wear a bra. Take that off, too. God, what nice, big tits.” Joe and Mike were standing hip to hip, their hands on each other’s flies. Light glinted off their nightsticks and the textured plastic grips of their revolvers. The sight of men handling each other was a sure-fire turn-on, despite her abraded face and Don’s bigoted remarks.

• From Lady Chatterley's Lover (1928)

  There was not a word about herself, or to her. Connie resented this. He might have said some few words of consolation or reassurance. But she knew he was leaving her free, free to go back to Wragby and to Clifford. She resented that too. He need not be so falsely chivalrous. She wished he had said to Clifford: "Yes, she is my lover and my mistress and I am proud of it!" But his courage wouldn't carry him so far. So her name was coupled with his in Tevershall! It was a mess. But that would soon die down. She was angry, with the complicated and confused anger that made her inert. She did not know what to do nor what to say, so she said and did nothing. She went on at Venice just the same, rowing out in the gondola with Duncan Forbes, bathing, letting the days slip by. Duncan, who had been rather depressingly in love with her ten years ago, was in love with her again. But she said to him: "I only want one thing of men, and that is, that they should leave me alone." So Duncan left her alone: really quite pleased to be able to. All the same, he offered her a soft stream of a queer, inverted sort of love. He wanted to be _with_ her. "Have you ever thought," he said to her one day, "how very little people are connected with one another. Look at Daniele! He is handsome as a son of the sun. But see how alone he looks in his handsomeness. Yet I bet he has a wife and family, and couldn't possibly go away from them." "Ask him," said Connie. Duncan did so. Daniele said he was married, and had two children, both male, aged seven and nine. But he betrayed no emotion over the fact. "Perhaps only people who are capable of real togetherness have that look of being alone in the universe," said Connie. "The others have a certain stickiness, they stick to the mass, like Giovanni." "And," she thought to herself, "like you, Duncan." CHAPTER XVIII She had to make up her mind what to do. She would leave Venice on the Saturday that he was leaving Wragby: in six days time. This would bring her to London on the Monday following, and she would then see him. She wrote to him to the London address, asking him to send her a letter to Hartland's hotel, and to call for her on the Monday evening at seven. Inside herself, she was curiously and complicatedly angry, and all her responses were numb. She refused to confide even in Hilda, and Hilda, offended by her steady silence, had become rather intimate with a Dutch woman. Connie hated these rather stifling intimacies between women, intimacy into which Hilda always entered ponderously.

• 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 Lady Chatterley's Lover (1928)

  "She will want to drive her own car, and take you with her," he said. "Probably!--I must help up here. You've no idea how heavy this chair is." She went to the back of the chair, and plodded side by side with the keeper, shoving up the pink path. She did not care who saw. "Why not let me wait, and fetch Field. He is strong enough for the job," said Clifford. "It's so near," she panted. But both she and Mellors wiped the sweat from their faces when they came to the top. It was curious, but this bit of work together had brought them much closer than they had been before. "Thanks so much, Mellors," said Clifford, when they were at the house door. "I must get a different sort of motor, that's all. Won't you go to the kitchen and have a meal? It must be about time." "Thank you, Sir Clifford. I was going to my mother for dinner today, Sunday." "As you like." Mellors slung into his coat, looked at Connie, saluted, and was gone. Connie, furious, went upstairs. At lunch she could not contain her feeling. "Why are you so abominably inconsiderate, Clifford?" she said to him. "Of whom?" "Of the keeper! If that is what you call the ruling classes, I'm sorry for you." "Why?" "A man who's been ill, and isn't strong! My word, if I were the serving classes, I'd let you wait for service. I'd let you whistle." "I quite believe it." "If he'd been sitting in a chair with paralysed legs, and behaved as you behaved, what would you have done for _him_?" "My dear evangelist, this confusing of persons and personalities is in bad taste." "And your nasty, sterile want of common sympathy is in the worst taste imaginable. _Noblesse Oblige!_ You and your ruling class!" "And to what should it oblige me? To have a lot of unnecessary emotions about my gamekeeper? I refuse. I leave it all to my evangelist." "As if he weren't a man as much as you are, my word!" "My gamekeeper to boot, and I pay him two pounds a week and give him a house." "Pay him! What do you think you pay for, with two pounds a week and a house?" "His services." "Bah! I would tell you to keep your two pounds a week and your house." "Probably he would like to: but can't afford the luxury!" "You, and _rule_!" she said. "You don't rule, don't flatter yourself. You have only got more than your share of the money, and make people work for you for two pounds a week, or threaten them with starvation. Rule! What do you give forth of rule? Why you're dried up! You only bully with your money, like any Jew or any Schieber!" "You are very elegant in your speech, Lady Chatterley!"

• From The Decameron (1353)

  There after he had awaited him a good while, he saw him come, unarmed and followed by two servants in like case, as one who apprehends nothing from him; and when he saw him come whereas he would have him, he rushed out upon him, lance in hand, full of rage and malice, crying, 'Traitor, thou art dead!' And to say thus and to plunge the lance into his breast were one and the same thing. Guardestaing, without being able to make any defence or even to say a word, fell from his horse, transfixed of the lance, and a little after died, whilst his servants, without waiting to learn who had done this, turned their horses' heads and fled as quickliest they might, towards their lord's castle. Roussillon dismounted and opening the dead man's breast with a knife, with his own hands tore out his heart, which he let wrap in the pennon of a lance and gave to one of his men to carry. Then, commanding that none should dare make words of the matter, he remounted, it being now night, and returned to his castle. The lady, who had heard that Guardestaing was to be there that evening to supper and looked for him with the utmost impatience, seeing him not come, marvelled sore and said to her husband, 'How is it, sir, that Guardestaing is not come?' 'Wife,' answered he, 'I have had [word] from him that he cannot be here till to-morrow'; whereat the lady abode somewhat troubled. Roussillon then dismounted and calling the cook, said to him, 'Take this wild boar's heart and look thou make a dainty dish thereof, the best and most delectable to eat that thou knowest, and when I am at table, send it to me in a silver porringer.' The cook accordingly took the heart and putting all his art thereto and all his diligence, minced it and seasoning it with store of rich spices, made of it a very dainty ragout.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  The moment the words were out he was frowning, and Stephen stared hard at Frau Karl Druschki. But as they passed from border to border, his brow cleared: ‘I’ve spent over three hundred,’ he said proudly, ‘never saw such a mess as this garden was in when I bought the place—had to dig in fresh soil for the roses just here, these are all new plants; I motored half across England to get them. See that hedge of York and Lancasters there? They didn’t cost much because they’re out of fashion. But I like them, they’re small but rather distinguished I think—there’s something so armorial about them.’ She agreed: ‘Yes, I’m awfully fond of them too;’ and she listened quite gravely while he explained that they dated as far back as the Wars of the Roses. ‘Historical, that’s what I mean,’ he explained. ‘I like everything old, you know, except women.’ She thought with an inward smile of his newness. Presently he said in a tone of surprise: ‘I never imagined that you’d care about roses.’ ‘Yes, why not? We’ve got quite a number at Morton. Why don’t you come over to-morrow and see them?’ ‘Do your William Allen Richardsons do well?’ he inquired. ‘I think so.’ ‘Mine don’t. I can’t make it out. This year, of course, they’ve been damaged by green-fly. Just come here and look at these standards, will you? They’re being devoured alive by the brutes!’ And then as though he were talking to a friend who would understand him: ‘Roses seem good to me—you know what I mean, there’s virtue about them—the scent and the feel and the way they grow. I always had some on the desk in my office, they seemed to brighten up the whole place, no end.’ He started to ink in the names on the labels with a gold fountain pen which he took from his pocket. ‘Yes,’ he murmured, as he bent his face over the labels, ‘yes, I always had three or four on my desk. But Birmingham’s a foul sort of place for roses.’ And hearing him, Stephen found herself thinking that all men had something simple about them; something that took pleasure in the things that were blameless, that longed, as it were, to contact with Nature. Martin had loved huge, primitive trees; and even this mean little man loved his roses. Angela came strolling across the lawn: ‘Come, you two,’ she called gaily, ‘tea’s waiting in the hall!’ Stephen flinched: ‘Come, you two—’ the words jarred on and she knew that Angela was thoroughly happy, for when Ralph was out of earshot for a moment she whispered: ‘You were clever about his roses!’ At tea Ralph relapsed into sulky silence; he seemed to regret his erstwhile good humour. And he ate quite a lot, which made Angela nervous —she dreaded his attacks of indigestion, which were usually accompanied by attacks of bad temper.

• From The Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  land for building, and many raised themselves from the status of labourers to that of owners of land and houses. Merchants from India followed them and settled there for trade. The late Sheth Abubakar Amod was first among them. He soon built up an extensive business. The white traders were alarmed. When they first welcomed the Indian labourers, they had not reckoned with their business skill. They might be tolerated as independent agriculturists, but their competition in trade could not be brooked. This sowed the seed of the antagonism to Indians. Many other factors contributed to its growth. Our different ways of living, our simplicity, our contentment with small gains, our indifference to the laws of hygiene and sanitation, our slowness in keeping our surroundings clean and tidy, and our stinginess in keeping our houses in good repair all these, combined with the difference in religion, contributed to fan the flame of antagonism. Through legislation this antagonism found its expression in the disfranchising bill and the bill to impose a tax on the indentured Indians. Independent of legislation a number of pinpricks had already been started. The first suggestion was that the Indian labourers should be forcibly repatriated, so that the term of their indentures might expire in India. The Government of India was not likely to accept the suggestion. Another proposal was therefore made to the effect that 1. The indentured labourer should return to India on the expiry of his indenture; or that 2. he should sign a fresh indenture every two years, an increment being given at each renewal; and that 3. in the case of his refusal to return to India or renew the indenture he should

• From Macho Sluts (1988)

  Maybe I am. The moon never talked to me, and neither did Jesus, but is sounds like he understood criminals and poor people. “If you’re going to take it to the collective,” I hiss, “surely you ought to have all the information. Don’t you want to know what I told her? After she got down on her knees in the alley and started licking my belt buckle? Huh?” I get my hand near my crotch and make a suggestive, masturbatory motion. Her eyes rivet themselves to my hand. She rearranges her big fanny nervously on the chair. “I called her a queer,” I chant, “a cunt-sucking little lezzie, a dyke, a boot-licking slut. And you might also tell your collective that her spit was running down my leg and dripping on the ground until there was a puddle underneath my boots, and she was so excited she pissed herself.” “Stop!” she shrieks. “Shit, if your process is worth anything, I think I ought to show up and introduce myself and tell the whole story to everybody.” I grab my crotch and squeeze it. “When’s your next meeting?” We stare at each other, perfectly matched in our hatred. She drops her eyes to go hunting for a rubber stamp. It says “REJECTED,” and she stomps on my application with it and throws the page at me. I catch it as it slaloms through the air. “You are scum,” she says, trying to sound calm and dispassionate. Her watermelon tits, the kind that look so nice when they are tied up, are thumping on her stomach, she is so upset. “When the bureau sends me leeches like you, I grieve for the decent and valiant women who laid down their lives for the sake of freedom.” I have no quick answer to that. I know I will probably spend all night trying to think of one, so I spit on the floor. Then I take my time hitching my pants up and settling my belt on my hips. She is tracking the faded patch of denim over my pussy, her mouth open. She starts to whisper, “You foul-mouthed traitor to your sex, wallowing in the garbage and the misery left in our very souls by ten thousand years of male domination.” One of her hands wanders off and finds a heavy crystal paperweight, the only pretty thing in the whole office. I get my ass out of there double-time, never you mind that is has been rimmed a hundred times by the decent and valiant daughters of the revolution. I run to the elevator and punch the button. There is no response.

• From Lady Chatterley's Lover (1928)

  "I shall if I possibly can. I should be fearfully proud if I had a child by him." It was no use talking to her. Hilda pondered. "And doesn't Clifford suspect?" she said. "Oh, no! Why should he?" "I've no doubt you've given him plenty of occasion for suspicion," said Hilda. "Not at all." "And tonight's business seems quite gratuitous folly. Where does the man live?" "In the cottage at the other end of the wood." "Is he a bachelor?" "No! His wife left him." "How old?" "I don't know. Older than me." Hilda became more angry at every reply, angry as her mother used to be, in a kind of paroxysm. But still she hid it. "I would give up tonight's escapade if I were you," she advised calmly. "I can't! I _must_ stay with him tonight, or I can't go to Venice at all. I just can't." Hilda heard her father over again, and she gave way, out of mere diplomacy. And she consented to drive to Mansfield, both of them, to dinner, to bring Connie back to the lane-end after dark, and to fetch her from the lane-end the next morning, herself sleeping in Mansfield, only half an hour away, good going. But she was furious. She stored it up against her sister, this baulk in her plans. Connie flung an emerald-green shawl over her window sill. On the strength of her anger, Hilda warmed towards Clifford. After all, he had a mind. And if he had no sex, functionally, all the better: so much the less to quarrel about! Hilda wanted no more of that sex business, where men became nasty, selfish little horrors. Connie really had less to put up with than many women, if she did but know it. And Clifford decided that Hilda, after all, was a decidedly intelligent woman, and would make a man a first-rate helpmeet, if he were going in for politics for example. Yes, she had none of Connie's silliness, Connie was more a child: you had to make excuses for her, because she was not altogether dependable. There was an early cup of tea in the hall, where doors were open to let in the sun. Everybody seemed to be panting a little. "Good-bye, Connie girl! Come back to me safely." "Good-bye, Clifford! Yes, I shan't be long." Connie was almost tender. "Good-bye, Hilda! You will keep an eye on her, won't you?" "I'll even keep two!" said Hilda. "She shan't go very far astray." "It's a promise!" "Good-bye, Mrs. Bolton! I know you'll look after Sir Clifford nobly." "I'll do what I can, your Ladyship." "And write to me if there is any news, and tell me about Sir Clifford, how he is." "Very good, your Ladyship, I will. And have a good time, and come back and cheer us up."

• From Understanding the Old Testament (2019)

  l e Ct Ure 10 | d e Uteronomy to Kings 59 The Historical Picture The Early Iron Age covers the years from 1200 to 1000 BCE. During the previous era, the Late Bronze Age, all of Canaan was ruled by Egypt. Beginning around 1200, Egypt became consumed with internal matters. The Egyptians kept control of parts of Canaan until 1150, by which time everything was independent. This allowed several different groups to expand in different parts of the country, generally getting along well with each other. In the Canaanite communities—including the cities on the coast and Jezreel Valley—town mayors became independent kings. They had control of the coastal highway route up to Jerusalem, which remained a Canaanite city. They did not call the city Jerusalem during this period. They called it Jebus. It was surrounded on the north, east, and south by Israelites. The entire area from Jerusalem almost to Jenin—the entire northern half of the modern West Bank—was dotted with small villages belonging to the Israelites in the Early Iron Age. That’s what the archaeology tells us, and it’s also the background for the entire book of Judges. The Pattern of Judges The book of Judges is not necessarily arranged chronologically. Its second chapter sets out a pattern by which the book will present, in turn, each of the judges. The pattern starts in Judges 2:11 with Israelites prostrating themselves to other gods, which the text calls “doing what was evil in the Lord’s sight.” This invariably was followed by God’s anger and the Israelites being handed over to their oppressors, which is seen in verse 13: Because they had abandoned the Lord … the anger of the Lord flared up against Israel. He delivered them into the power of plunderers who despoiled them, sold them into the power of the enemies around them. They were no longer able to withstand their enemies. Whenever they marched out, the hand of the Lord turned against them.

• From The Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  A TUSSLE WITH POWER To turn now to the Asiatic Department. Johannesburg was the stronghold of the Asiatic officers. I had been observing that, far from protecting the Indians, Chinese and others, these officers were grinding them down. Every day I had complaints like this: ‘The rightful ones are not admitted, whilst those who have no right are smuggled in on payment of 100. If you will not remedy this state of things, who will?’ I shared the feeling. If I did not succeed in stamping out this evil, I should be living in the Transvaal in vain. So I began to collect evidence, and as soon as I had gathered a fair Amount, I approached the Police Commissioner. He appeared to be a just man. Far from giving me the cold shoulder, he listened to me patiently and asked me to show him all the evidence in my possession. He examined the witnesses himself and was satisfied, but he knew as well as I that it was difficult in South Africa to get a white jury to convict a white offender against coloured men. ‘But,’ said he, ‘let us try at any rate. It is not proper either, to let such criminals go scot-free for fear of the jury acquitting them, I must get them arrested. I assure you I shall leave no stone unturned.’ I did not need the assurance. I suspected quite a number of officers, but as I had no unchallengeable evidence against them all, warrants of arrest were issued against the two about whose guilt I had not the slightest doubt. My movements could never be kept secret. Many knew that I was going to the Police Commissioner practically daily. The two officers against whom warrants had been issued had spies more or less efficient. They used to patrol my office

• From The Incendiaries (2018)

  I looked in the news, I said. From the spring before last, in Yanji, China. I searched headlines. John Leal’s a U.S. citizen. If he’d been abducted by North Korean agents, his organization would have reported it. It would be a big fucking deal. “Edwards student missing, presumed kidnapped.” But there’s nothing, Phoebe. I couldn’t find a single mention of him. Will— I think he’s lying. Well, I don’t. If you were taking up, oh, Buddhism, I wouldn’t mind. If you’d decided to collect old coins— Oh, she said, leaning back. Old coins. Will, if that’s what you want, I’ll be less of a hobbyist. I have to stop living in sin. No, let me finish. I’ve waited for God to hand me a revelation, but I don’t think that’s how He loves us. Hold on. This isn’t about you, Will. I’ve given it a lot of thought. If I did what people here do—if I chased high-paid jobs, and I wrote fifteen-page papers on Milton, I have no idea who that would help. But if I could find out what I am. If I have a soul. I’ve thought about what St. Augustine said, that we have to beg the Lord to know Him. It wasn’t until the 18th century that the church established belief as a precondition of Christian faith—if I act as though I believe, maybe I’ll also experience the divine. If I don’t, I’ll have tried. Isn’t that what you did? She reached across the table, waiting for me to admit that yes, I had. But I was also picturing the two of them in the car’s claustral space: a private, long drive, the partial curtain of Phoebe’s hair swinging. She laughed, ignoring phone calls. He’d have instructed Phoebe about what to tell me, tonight. It was central to his appeal that he liked giving orders. Is this his idea? I asked. No. Did he stay with you last night? It wasn’t, she said. He did, but it’s not— So, let’s be honest. This isn’t about being a born-again virgin for Christ. It’s about you, the wide-eyed acolyte, fucking the guru. Will, you don’t mean this. Sure, I do. It’s what people do in cults like Jejah. You do realize, of course, that it’s a cult. That’s what’s changed, if you’re wondering. I wasn’t sure, at first, but it’s the truth. He’s a low-rent Jesus freak with Franciscan affectations. So, how does it work: do you take turns, fucking him, or is it one big orgy, just a giant Christ-loving pile? I wish you’d told me, though. I’d have joined you— She pushed the cup off the table. A wet stain swelled across the floorboards, broken glass glittering. I’ll get it, I said. Don’t, she said, crying. I went to find the broom. When I returned, she was still at the table.