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 Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  So the community was asked to submit the names of the representives who were to form the Deputation. Colour prejudice was of course in evidence everywhere in South Africa, but I was not prepared to find here the dirty and underhand dealing among officials that I was familiar with in India. In South Africa the public departments were maintained for the good of the people and were responsible to public opinion. Hence officials in charge had a certain courtesy of manner and humility about them, and coloured people also got the benefit of it more or less. With the coming of the officers from Asia, came also its autocracy, and the habits that the autocrats had imbibed there. In South Africa there was a kind of responsible government or democracy, whereas the commodity imported from Asia was autocracy pure and simple; for the Asiatics had no responsible government, there being a foreign power governing them. In South Africa the Europeans were settled emigrants. They had become South African citizens and had control over the departmental officers. But the autocrats from Asia now appeared on the scene, and the Indians in consequence found themselves between the devil and the deep sea. I had a fair taste of this autocracy. I was first summoned to see the chief of the department, an officer from Ceylon. Lest I should appear to exaggerate when I say that I was ‘summoned’ to see the chief, I shall make myself clear. No written order was sent to me. Indian leaders often had to visit the Asiatic officers. Among these was the late Sheth Tyeb Haji Khanmahomed. The chief of the office asked him who I was and why I had come there. ‘He is our adviser,’ said Tyeb Sheth, ‘and he has come here at our request.’ ‘Then what are we here for? Have we not been appointed to protect you? What can Gandhi know of the conditions here?’ asked the autocrat. Tyeb Sheth answered the charge as best he could: ‘Of course you are there. But Gandhi is our man. He knows our language and understands us. You are after all officials.’ The Sahib ordered Tyeb Sheth to fetch me before him. I went to the Sahib in company with Tyeb Sheth and others. No seats were offered, we were all kept standing. ‘What brings you here?’ said the Sahib addressing me. ‘I have come here at the request of my fellow countrymen to help them with my advice,’ I replied. ‘But don’t you know that you have no right to come here? The permit you hold was given you by mistake. You must go back. You shall not wait on Mr. Chamberlain. It is for the protection of the Indians here that the Asiatic Department had been especially created. Well, you may go.’ With this he bade me good-bye, giving me no opportunity for a reply. But he detained my companions. He gave them a sound scolding and advised them to send me away.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Therewithal, Calandrino enforcing himself,[376] answered, 'Comrades, be not angered; the case standeth otherwise than as you deem. I (unlucky wretch that I am!) had found the stone in question, and you shall hear if I tell truth. When first you questioned one another of me, I was less than half a score yards distant from you; but, seeing that you made off and saw me not, I went on before you and came back hither, still keeping a little in front of you.' Then, beginning from the beginning, he recounted to them all that they had said and done, first and last, and showed them how the stones had served his back and shins; after which, 'And I may tell you,' continued he, 'that, whenas I entered in at the gate, with all these stones about me which you see here, there was nothing said to me, albeit you know how vexatious and tiresome these gatekeepers use to be in wanting to see everything; more by token that I met by the way several of my friends and gossips, who are still wont to accost me and invite me to drink; but none of them said a word to me, no, nor half a word, as those who saw me not. At last, being come home hither, this accursed devil of a woman presented herself before me, for that, as you know, women cause everything lose its virtue, wherefore I, who might else have called myself the luckiest man in Florence, am become the most unlucky. For this I have beaten her as long as I could wag my fists and I know not what hindereth me from slitting her weasand, accursed be the hour when first I saw her and when she came to me in this house.' Then, flaming out into fresh anger, he offered to rise and beat her anew. [Footnote 376: _Sforzandosi_, _i.e._ recovering his wind with an effort.]

• From Lady Chatterley's Lover (1928)

  A wet brown dog came running and did not bark, lifting a wet feather of a tail. The man followed in a wet black oilskin jacket, like a chauffeur, and face flushed a little. She felt him recoil in his quick walk, when he saw her. She stood up in the handbreadth of dryness under the rustic porch. He saluted without speaking, coming slowly near. She began to withdraw. "I'm just going," she said. "Was yer waitin' to get in?" he asked, looking at the hut, not at her. "No, I only sat a few minutes in the shelter," she said, with quiet dignity. He looked at her. She looked cold. "Sir Clifford 'adn't got no other key, then?" he asked. "No, but it doesn't matter. I can sit perfectly dry under this porch. Good afternoon!" She hated the excess of vernacular in his speech. He watched her closely, as she was moving away. Then he hitched up his jacket, and put his hand in his breeches pocket, taking out the key of the hut. "'Appen yer'd better 'ave this key, an' Ah mun fend for t' bods some other road." She looked at him. "What do you mean?" she asked. "I mean as 'appen Ah can find anuther pleece as'll du for rearin' th' pheasants. If yer want ter be 'ere, yo'll non want me messin' abaht a' th' time." She looked at him, getting his meaning through the fog of the dialect. "Why don't you speak ordinary English?" she said coldly. "Me! Ah thowt it _wor'_ ordinary." She was silent for a few moments in anger. "So if yer want t' key, yer'd better ta'e it. Or 'appen Ah'd better gi'e 't yer termorrer, an' clear all t' stuff aht fust. Would that du for yer?" She became more angry. "I didn't want your key," she said. "I don't want you to clear anything out at all. I don't in the least want to turn you out of your hut, thank you! I only wanted to be able to sit here sometimes, like today. But I can sit perfectly well under the porch, so please say no more about it." He looked at her again, with his wicked blue eyes. "Why," he began, in the broad slow dialect. "Your Ladyship's as welcome as Christmas ter th' hut an' th' key an' iverythink as is. On'y this time o' th' year ther's bods ter set, an' Ah've got ter be potterin' abaht a good bit, seein' after 'em, an' a'. Winter time Ah ned 'ardly come nigh th' pleece. But what wi' Spring, an' Sir Clifford wantin' ter start th' pheasants.... An' your Ladyship'd non want me tinkerin' around an' about when she was 'ere, all th' time." She listened with a dim kind of amazement. "Why should I mind your being here?" she asked. He looked at her curiously.

• From Lady Chatterley's Lover (1928)

  Clifford did not reply. He began doing things with his engine, running her fast and slow as if to get some sort of tune out of her. The wood re-echoed with weird noises. Then he put her in gear with a jerk, having jerked off his brake. "You'll rip her inside out," murmured the keeper. The chair charged in a sick lurch sideways at the ditch. "Clifford!" cried Connie, rushing forward. But the keeper had got the chair by the rail. Clifford, however, putting on all his pressure, managed to steer into the riding, and with a strange noise the chair was fighting the hill. Mellors pushed steadily behind, and up she went, as if to retrieve herself. "You see she's doing it!" said Clifford victorious, glancing over his shoulder. There he saw the keeper's face. "Are you pushing her?" "She won't do it without." "Leave her alone. I asked you not." "She won't do it." "_Let her try!_" snarled Clifford, with all his emphasis. The keeper stood back: then turned to fetch his coat and gun. The chair seemed to strangle immediately. She stood inert. Clifford, seated a prisoner, was white with vexation. He jerked at the levers with his hand, his feet were no good. He got queer noises out of her. In savage impatience he moved little handles and got more noises out of her. But she would not budge. No, she would not budge. He stopped the engine and sat rigid with anger. Constance sat on the bank and looked at the wretched and trampled bluebells. "Nothing quite so lovely as an English spring." "I can do my share of ruling." "What we need to take up now is whips, not swords." "The ruling classes!" The keeper strode up with his coat and gun, Flossie cautiously at his heels. Clifford asked the man to do something or other to the engine. Connie, who understood nothing at all of the technicalities of motors, and who had had experience of breakdowns, sat patiently on the bank as if she were a cipher. The keeper lay on his stomach again. The ruling classes and the serving classes! He got to his feet and said patiently: "Try her again, then." He spoke in a quiet voice, almost as if to a child. Clifford tried her, and Mellors stepped quickly behind and began to push. She was going, the engine doing about half the work, the man the rest. Clifford glanced round yellow with anger. "Will you get off there!" The keeper dropped his hold at once, and Clifford added: "How shall I know what she is doing!" The man put his gun down and began to pull on his coat. He'd done. The chair began slowly to run backwards. "Clifford, your brake!" cried Connie. She, Mellors, and Clifford moved at once, Connie and the keeper jostling lightly. The chair stood. There was a moment of dead silence. "It's obvious I'm at everybody's mercy!" said Clifford. He was yellow with anger.

• From Lady Chatterley's Lover (1928)

  It was just dismal, and one had to put up with it. It was quite true, men had no real glamour for a woman: if you could fool yourself into thinking they had, even as she had fooled herself over Michaelis, that was the best you could do. Meanwhile you just lived on and there was nothing to it. She understood perfectly well why people had cocktail parties, and jazzed, and Charlestoned till they were ready to drop. You had to take it out some way or other, your youth, or it ate you up. But what a ghastly thing, this youth! you felt as old as Methuselah, and yet the thing fizzed somehow, and didn't let you be comfortable. A mean sort of life! And no prospect! She almost wished she had gone off with Mick, and made her life one long cocktail party, and jazz evening. Anyhow that was better than just mooning yourself into the grave. On one of her bad days she went out alone to walk in the wood, ponderously, heeding nothing, not even noticing where she was. The report of a gun not far off startled and angered her. Then, as she went, she heard voices, and recoiled. People! She didn't want people. But her quick ear caught another sound, and she roused; it was a child sobbing. At once she attended; someone was ill-treating a child. She strode swinging down the wet drive, her sullen resentment uppermost. She felt just prepared to make a scene. Turning the corner, she saw two figures in the drive beyond her: the keeper, and a little girl in a purple coat and moleskin cap, crying. "Ah, shut it up, tha false little bitch!" came the man's angry voice, and the child sobbed louder. Constance strode nearer, with blazing eyes. The man turned and looked at her, saluting coolly, but he was pale with anger. "What's the matter? Why is she crying?" demanded Constance, peremptory but a little breathless. A faint smile like a sneer came on the man's face. "Nay, yo' mun ax 'er," he replied callously, in broad vernacular. Connie felt as if he had hit her in the face, and she changed colour. Then she gathered her defiance, and looked at him, her dark-blue eyes blazing rather vaguely. "I asked _you_," she panted. He gave a queer little bow, lifting his hat. "You did, your Ladyship," he said; then, with a return to the vernacular: "but I canna tell yer." And he became a soldier, inscrutable, only pale with annoyance. Connie turned to the child, a ruddy, black-haired thing of nine or ten. "What is it, dear? Tell me why you're crying!" she said, with the conventionalised sweetness suitable. More violent sobs, self-conscious. Still more sweetness on Connie's part. "There, there, don't you cry! Tell me what they've done to you!" ... and intense tenderness of tone. At the same time she felt in the pocket of her knitted jacket, and luckily found a sixpence.

• From Lady Chatterley's Lover (1928)

  No one answered. Mellors was slinging his gun over his shoulder, his face queer and expressionless, save for an abstracted look of patience. The dog Flossie, standing on guard almost between her master's legs, moved uneasily, eyeing the chair with great suspicion and dislike, and very much perplexed between the three human beings. The _tableau vivant_ remained set among the squashed bluebells, nobody proffering a word. "I expect she'll have to be pushed," said Clifford at last, with an affectation of _sang froid_. No answer. Mellors' abstracted face looked as if he had heard nothing. Connie glanced anxiously at him. Clifford too glanced round. "Do you mind pushing her home, Mellors!" he said in a cool, superior tone. "I hope I have said nothing to offend you," he added, in a tone of dislike. "Nothing at all, Sir Clifford! Do you want me to push that chair?" "If you please." The man stepped up to it: but this time it was without effect. The brake was jammed. They poked and pulled, and the keeper took off his gun and his coat once more. And now Clifford said never a word. At last the keeper heaved the back of the chair off the ground, and with an instantaneous push of his foot, tried to loosen the wheels. He failed, the chair sank. Clifford was clutching the sides. The man gasped with the weight. "Don't do it!" cried Connie to him. "If you'll pull the wheel that way, so!" he said to her, showing her how. "No! You mustn't lift it! You'll strain yourself," she said, flushed now with anger. But he looked into her eyes and nodded. And she had to go and take hold of the wheel, ready. He heaved and she tugged, and the chair reeled. "For God's sake!" cried Clifford in terror. But it was all right, and the brake was off. The keeper put a stone under the wheel, and went to sit on the bank, his heart beating and his face white with the effort, semi-conscious. Connie looked at him, and almost cried with anger. There was a pause and a dead silence. She saw his hands trembling on his thighs. "Have you hurt yourself?" she asked, going to him. "No. No!" he turned away almost angrily. There was dead silence. The back of Clifford's fair head did not move. Even the dog stood motionless. The sky had clouded over. At last he sighed, and blew his nose on his red handkerchief. "That pneumonia took a lot out of me," he said. No one answered. Connie calculated the amount of strength it must have taken to heave up that chair and the bulky Clifford: too much, far too much! If it hadn't killed him! He rose, and again picked up his coat, slinging it through the handle of the chair. "Are you ready, then, Sir Clifford?" "When you are!"

• From Macho Sluts (1988)

  It takes a lot of guts for lesbian writers to push beyond our anger about what women aren’t allowed to do. We are prey to the suspicion that it’s our fault and women don’t deserve anything better. We are afraid of more opportunity, because we might fail. This affects our ability to engender new (or at least accurate) sexual images that are genuinely exciting. The power of the censor within is awesome. The only way I could write some of these stories was to pretend I wasn’t going to publish them. Nobody’s an expert on women’s sexuality; most women aren’t even experts on their own libidos. I doubt anyone ever will be qualified to generalize about what all women want or proscribe certain sexualities as being anti-woman. But if enough of us speak out about our dreams and obsessions, a body of genuine knowledge can accumulate, and make all of us feel less crazy and less alone with what we cannot live without. When you are dealing with an area as permeated with ignorance and superstition as sexuality, it is more important to be honest than it is to be correct; to say “I want this now” before rushing to assert, “I will want this when I know and accept what is best for me.” Lesbians are constantly being told by the rest of the world that we are ugly, boring, and unimportant. This kind of shit takes a toll on our self-esteem. The same cues that alert other lesbians to our availability and sexual prowess seem odd, annoying, and unattractive to straight people. And they don’t have any tact about letting us know it, on the bus, at work, in the grocery store, on the street, in the gym, at the tie rack in the men’s wear department. Lesbian pornography, especially if it has some humor, is a powerful antidote to this dehumanizing grind. It reassures us that it’s worth putting on that white silk shirt and bomber jacket and polishing our boots before we go out, that somebody is going to get the message. It says, there’s a woman out there looking for a girl in a magenta satin dress with spaghetti straps, so fluff up your hair, strap on those dancin’ shoes, and go someplace where she can find you.

• From Macho Sluts (1988)

  “Daddy, I know I’ve been bad,” she cried. “I’m sorry, don’t hit me any more. Daddy, it’s gonna be so sore when you fuck me, there won’t be any place left for you to hang on to.” But Alex did not stop. “Oh, I hate you, I hate you!” She was in for it now. Alex was going to continue the whipping until she broke down and cried and confessed that she loved her Daddy best of all. There was no way to feign this catharsis. And at the moment there was nothing in her heart but murder. She screamed and kicked like one of the Furies, and wasn’t even grateful that the horse was bolted to the floor. The hot coffee had put color back into Chris’s cheeks, and she had recovered her perspective enough to laugh at Roxanne’s dilemma. “God, what a seductive little witch she is,” she said, admiring the stripes that were rapidly adorning Roxanne’s pert, plump bottom. “Yeah, it’s a nice piece,” EZ said, strolling up and leaning back, putting one foot up on the wall. “Too bad it isn’t yours, Chris. But you had your shot at it, and the big dog made you give it up. Anyway, I think we all can see you just don’t have what it would take to keep that cunt happy.” Everyone was so shocked that EZ actually had the time to sneer at Chris before Kay hooked one foot around her buddy’s ankle, and her keister hit the floor. “This time,” Kay hissed, “you have gone too far.” “Jah may be dead,” Joy murmured, “but this tired world still need a little justice, gotta make it where we can.” “Your not-for-profit corporation just lost its tax-exempt status,” Tyre announced. “Baby, you are about to lose your tailpipe and muffler,” was Michael’s estimate. “Keel-hauling is too good for her,” Anne-Marie huffed. Chris didn’t know what to say, but it really didn’t seem like there was much to be added. “Aw, fuck all of you!” EZ shouted. “I never wanted to come to this goddamn party anyway. You all think you’re such hot shit. And that bitch over there, how does she rate? She’s nothing but a whore, and you’re all just pussy to me. Tryin’ to act tough and important, you’re just a bunch of girls.”

• From Macho Sluts (1988)

  A federal grand jury in Alexandria, Virginia is probing interstate transportation of obscene materials, and has subpoenaed the corporate records of two New York porn distributors, one distributor in Los Angeles, and some local corporations. These businesses handle S/M material along with other types of porn. The subpoenas were handed out after the FBI raided Washington, D.C. area video rental stores and confiscated tapes and “marital aids.” This stepped up activity against sadomasochists and S/M imagery by the feds and local vice squads is a direct response to the Meese Commission’s report on pornography, which claims (in language provided by the feminist anti-porn movement) that “violent pornography” (i.e., S/M material) is itself violence against women and fosters it in the rest of society. After the report was issued, Attorney General Edwin Meese committed the Justice Department to an intensified campaign against pornography, and called for federal prosecutors to go after “child pornography, sadomasochistic scenes, rape scenes, depiction of bestiality or excretory functions and violent and degrading images of explicit sexual conduct, and other similar hardcore material.” He specifically exempted “soft-core pornography” from this vendetta. (He also vowed, “There will be no censorship while I am attorney general.”) Well, this is one woman who doesn’t feel that these law enforcement officials are making my life safer. It may seem odd for me to include information about specific cases in a book introduction since it will quickly become dated. But this anti-S/M moral panic is not being covered in a systematic, comprehensive way in the gay press or other progressive publications. Gayle Rubin has given a series of lectures about these disturbing events at several S/M and leather conferences, but it appears that nobody outside of the sexual minority that is under attack knows what is going on—or cares. The same anti-censorship forces that mustered to protest the dangerous biases of the Meese Commission have not called any press conferences, written any articles, or issued any public statements to denounce this witch-hunt. It would please me to be wrong about this, but I get the impression that most anti-censorship feminists are just relieved that it’s “only” S/M material, which they never approved of anyway, which is being threatened. When they attacked the Meese Commission or criticized obscenity legislation authored by anti-porn activists, these women were repeatedly characterized by their opponents as sadomasochists, supporters of child abuse, advocates of rape, pimps, fascists, etc. They resented being associated with what they think of as the sexual lunatic fringe. I don’t think many of them will have the guts to risk getting smeared again by trying to arouse some public indignation over gross violations of S/M people’s First Amendment rights and right to privacy. But somebody needs to say that this is censorship, that it is not okay, that we cannot afford to ignore it.

• From Under the Banner of Heaven (2003)

  into the hereafter, Leany might want to repent for certain sins some of the Toquerville brethren had accused him of committing. Leany replied angrily that “God shall bear me witness that I am clean of all of which they accuse me & they guilty of all that I accuse them & much more.” What Leany accused his fellow Saints of, the letter revealed, was “thieving whoredom murder and Suicide & like abominations.” He reminded Steele, moreover, that “you are far from ignorant of these deeds of blood from the day the picket fence was broke on my head to the day those three were murdered in our ward & the murderer killed to stop the shedding of more blood.” Five paragraphs later, Leany made another allusion to “the killing the three in one room of our own ward.” Baffled and intrigued by these provocative references to murder, Wesley Larsen deduced from historical records that the killings alluded to by Leany had occurred in 1869. Then he determined that only three men had been murdered that year in southern Utah: William Dunn and the Howland brothers. But why would the good Saints of Toquerville want to take the lives of three wayward explorers? Toquerville was founded in 1858, a year after the Mountain Meadows massacre, and most of the first families to settle there were headed by men who had participated in the slaughter. Many of these same men were living in Toquerville in 1869 when Powell floated down the Grand Canyon. The year prior to Powell’s expedition, Ulysses S. Grant had been elected president, and his administration had made it a priority to capture the perpetrators of the massacre and bring them to justice. Even before this new dragnet, moreover, a $5,000 bounty had been placed on the heads of Isaac Haight, John Higbee, and John D. Lee. By the time Dunn and the Howlands decided to abandon Powell’s expedition and walk to the Mormon settlements, many of Toquerville’s leading citizens were living in constant fear of arrest. The climate of paranoia that pervaded the region was at a particularly high pitch in the summer of 1869 thanks to Brigham Young, who had made a trip through southern Utah that season stoking hatred for the Gentiles. Cautioning that federal troops were about to launch a new invasion of Deseret, Brigham ordered sentries to stand watch at strategic points along the territory’s southern border. This was the volatile atmosphere that awaited Dunn and the Howlands as

• From The Decameron (1353)

  I tell thee that Madam Ginevra thy wife hath under her left pap a pretty big mole, about which are maybe half a dozen little hairs as red as gold.' When Bernabo heard this, it was as if he had gotten a knife-thrust in the heart, such anguish did he feel, and though he had said not a word, his countenance, being all changed, gave very manifest token that what Ambrogiuolo said was true. Then, after awhile, 'Gentlemen,' quoth he, 'that which Ambrogiuolo saith is true; wherefore, he having won, let him come whenassoever it pleaseth him and he shall be paid.' Accordingly, on the ensuing day Ambrogiuolo was paid in full and Bernabo, departing Paris, betook himself to Genoa with fell intent against the lady. When he drew near the city, he would not enter therein, but lighted down a good score miles away at a country house of his and despatched one of his servants, in whom he much trusted, to Genoa with two horses and letters under his hand, advising his wife that he had returned and bidding her come to him; and he privily charged the man, whenas he should be with the lady in such place as should seem best to him, to put her to death without pity and return to him. The servant accordingly repaired to Genoa and delivering the letters and doing his errand, was received with great rejoicing by the lady, who on the morrow took horse with him and set out for their country house. As they fared on together, discoursing of one thing and another, they came to a very deep and lonely valley, beset with high rocks and trees, which seeming to the servant a place wherein he might, with assurance for himself, do his lord's commandment, he pulled out his knife and taking the lady by the arm, said, 'Madam, commend your soul to God, for needs must you die, without faring farther.' The lady, seeing the knife and hearing these words, was all dismayed and said, 'Mercy, for God's sake! Ere thou slay me, tell me wherein I have offended thee, that thou wouldst put me to death.' 'Madam,' answered the man, 'me you have nowise offended; but wherein you have offended your husband I know not, save that he hath commanded me slay you by the way, without having any pity upon you, threatening me, an I did it not, to have me hanged by the neck. You know well how much I am beholden to him and how I may not gainsay him in aught that he may impose upon me; God knoweth it irketh me for you, but I can no otherwise.' Whereupon quoth the lady, weeping, 'Alack, for God's sake, consent not to become the murderer of one who hath never wronged thee, to serve another! God who knoweth all knoweth that I never did aught for which I should receive such a recompense from my husband.

• From Macho Sluts (1988)

  He spent all his time in class drawing out, encouraging, and praising the brighter and better-looking boys. I couldn’t even get him to argue with me. He would call on me when my nuisance factor reached a certain level, let me talk as long as I wanted to, stare out the window, then take up where he had left off as soon as I shut up. Coincidentally, Students for Solidarity was running short of targets. Everybody had pulled in and tightened up and battened down so carefully that we were in danger of becoming obsolete. Who needs cops in a law-abiding society? Everyone insisted we had to put this rogue professor up against the wall. We had been assigned reading from the annotated version of Engels’ “The Origin of the Family, Private Property, and the State.” When I walked into the classroom, I noticed that Roger, the only boy who dared sit in the front row, was not there. When the professor stood to begin his lecture, he seemed to have a cold. “I invite,” he said, “your predictable comments on this so-called piece of history.” I was astonished, and gleefully stood to object. “It would seem to me that you are calling fundamental truths into question,” I said. He actually, for a change, responded to me. He said, “Young lady, you do not know what you are talking about.” The insult was mind-ripping. My single cell of hatred fissioned, and I was hosting a colony of feverishly reproducing and breeding and multiplying rage. He then lambasted what he called the matriarchal “theory.” According to him, there was no evidence to support the belief that women had controlled all pre-industrial cultures. Nor was there any reason to believe that these societies, regardless of who ran them, were any more ecologically balanced, less violent, or more evolved than any other “community of homo sapiens.” He was repeatedly interrupted by a chorus of hisses from all the students. Some of the more timid boys were sneaking out the back door. “Cite your sources!” I shouted at him. He had to answer me. I was the only one saying something instead of drumming my feet on the floor and making a noise like a rabid goose. “If I were allowed to teach any anthropology in this benighted institution, I would!” he shouted back. Was this man having a nervous breakdown? He could not be that stupid. “The very name of that pseudoscientific cult discredits it,” I yelled. “How dare you call yourself a historian?” Another member of StudSolid, this girl who had ignored my tactful suggestion that one observer would attract less attention than two, was drowning us both out by shouting, “Boycott! Walk out! Boycott! Walk out!” And people were doing what she said. The small auditorium was emptying out. I was somehow going in the other direction, down to the front.

• From Macho Sluts (1988)

  Come on, EZ, you been starin’ at her basket all night long, now it’s right in your face and you damn well better look good and hard. ” Michael was not being nice. She ran her tongue around her mouth, pushed down on her cock with two fingers, then wrapped her hand around it and jacked it off. “See, you don’t want to suck it because you figure that makes you pussy, but welcome to the twentieth century, EZ, where it takes a real man to suck cock. Blow it.” Five weapons in female hands circled her head, and the sixth went down her throat. “I am glad to see you’re not pretendin’ you don’t know how this is done,” Kay said calmly. “D’you think none of our tricks ever told me what went on every time I stepped out to take a leak or get a beer? You got quite a reputation, girl, for sneakin’ around doin’ something most people think is American as apple pie. Don’t think you’re gonna hide your light under a bushel no more, cocksucker. We just found something socially useful for that nasty mouth of yours to do.” With her hands behind her back, EZ had very little control over the depth of Michael’s penetration. She tried holding her neck stiff, but the prick of steel against her scalp took the starch right out of her. She gave up and let Michael make full use of her. When they hauled her to her feet, her face was covered with tears and less attractive substances, and Kay took the red bandana off her jacket to mop her off. EZ permitted this, but when Kay reached into her jeans again, she bolted. Michael and Joy caught her by the belt-loops and dragged her back, and Kay slapped her backhanded, a serious penalty when she was wearing all of her rings. EZ had to let that hand worm its way into her crotch and bring up a handful of female lubrication, which Kay smeared across her face. “I just gotta make sure you get brought down a notch or two and stay there,” Kay said, “about at the height of my spurs. See, I think you not only believe that the faggots you suck off will forget all about it, I think you also believe that I forgot how we ever got together in the first place. Tyre, go ask Alex if there’s any room on the horse.” “No!” EZ shouted. “Not ever there. Not by her. I won’t! You can’t make me!” “Nonsense, dear,” Anne-Marie said, and they dragged her bodily to where Alex stood, beckoning them to join her, and threw her onto the horse by Roxanne. “This is not consensual!”

• 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 Macho Sluts (1988)

  Today, fundamentalist Christians go after MTV, and some women’s bookstores try to incise pornography from the lesbian body of literature. There is no easier, faster way to transmit information or a system of values than by presenting it in a format that makes people laugh, dance, get turned on, or just feel good. What is it that they don’t want you to hear? I do not believe that sex has an inherent power to transform the world. I do not believe that pleasure is always an anarchic force for good. I do not believe that we can fuck our way to freedom. But this is not what the discourse of sexual repression tells us. In that discourse unleashed sex has enormous disruptive potential. Minority forms of sex have to be repressed or the social contract will hang in tatters. People will look to their friends and lovers for warmth, affection, love, and support instead of to their biological families. Women and children will have no protection from male violence. Work for the sake of work will cease to be valued. The nine-to-five, five-days-a-week wage labor that is the foundation of commerce will be disrupted by bored and frustrated workers who use any excuse to come in late, get high as often as possible to alleviate their tedium, rip off their employers, and spend their evenings trying to pick somebody up in a bar or going to political meetings organized by antisocial elements. Nobody will go to church. Children will be thoughtlessly conceived and carelessly reared, and venereal diseases will flourish. This is, of course, in wild opposition to our present system. I suspect that what is really being protected by censorship, antiabortion, and homophobic campaigns is the self-image of the so-called majority. Consider how narrow the range of acceptable sexual behavior is. Nobody comes out looking normal once you know the whole truth about how they fuck and what they think about when they jerk off. The citizens are terrified of losing their heterosexual privilege, which will happen if the assumption that there is a sexual consensus, a few simple sexual things that are (or should be) enough for any normal person, is challenged. Sex alone can’t liberate us, but in the meantime, it comforts us. Women want and need the freedom to be outrageous, out-of-doors, out-of-bounds, out after dark, without being silenced or punished by stigma, battery, forced reproduction, or murder. We have a right to pleasure ourselves, and access to pornography is a part of that. There’s another reason why some of the new lesbian porn doesn’t get me wet.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Thus tormented, she grew less tactful with her husband, and now she was always plying him with questions: ‘But why can’t you tell me what Stephen said to you, Philip, that evening when she went to your study?’ And he, with a mighty effort to be patient, would answer: ‘She said that she couldn’t love Martin—there was no crime in that. Leave the child alone, Anna, she’s unhappy enough; why not let her alone?’ And then he would hastily change the subject. But Anna could not let Stephen alone, could never keep off the topic of Martin. She would talk at the girl until she grew crimson; and seeing this, Sir Philip would frown darkly, and when he and his wife were alone in their bedroom he would often reproach her with violence. ‘Cruel—it’s abominably cruel of you, Anna. Why in God’s name must you go on nagging Stephen?’ Anna’s taut nerves would tighten to breaking, so that she, when she answered, must also speak with violence. One night he said abruptly: ‘Stephen won’t marry—I don’t want her to marry; it would only mean disaster.’ And at this Anna broke out in angry protest. Why shouldn’t Stephen marry? She wished her to marry. Was he mad? And what did he mean by disaster? No woman was ever complete without marriage—what on earth did he mean by disaster? He frowned and refused to answer her question. Stephen, he said, must go up to Oxford. He had set his heart on a good education for the child, who might some day become a fine writer. Marriage wasn’t the only career for a woman. Look at Puddle, for instance; she’d been at Oxford—a most admirable, well- balanced, sensible creature. Next year he was going to send Stephen to Oxford. Anna scoffed: Yes, indeed, he might well look at Puddle! She was what came of this higher education—a lonely, unfulfilled, middle-aged spinster. Anna didn’t want that kind of life for her daughter. And then:’ It’s a pity you can’t be frank, Philip, about what was said that night in your study. I feel that there’s something you’re keeping back from me—it’s so unlike Martin to behave as he has done; there must have been something that you haven’t told me, to have made him go off without even a letter—’ He flared up at once because he felt guilty. ‘I don’t care a damn about Martin!’ he said hotly. ‘All I care about is Stephen, and she’s going to Oxford next year; she’s my child as well as yours, Anna!’ Then quite suddenly Anna’s self-control left her, and she let him see into her tormented spirit; all that had lain unspoken between them she now put into crude, ugly words for his hearing: ‘You care nothing for me any more—you and Stephen are enleagued against me—you have been for years.’ Aghast at herself, she must yet go on speaking: ‘You and Stephen—oh, I’ve seen it for years—you and Stephen.’

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

  LITERARY TRAINING It was seen in the last chapter how we provided for the physical training on Tolstoy Farm, and incidentally for the vocational. Though this was hardly done in a way to satisfy me, it may be claimed to have been more or less successful.Literary training, however, was a more difficult matter. I had neither the resources nor the literary equipment necessary; and I had not the time I would have wished to devote to the subject. The physical work that I was doing used to leave me thoroughly exhausted at the end of the day, and I used to have the classes just when I was most in need of some rest. Instead, therefore, of my being fresh for the class, I could with the greatest difficulty keep myself awake. The mornings had to be devoted to work on the farm and domestic duties, so the school hours had to be kept after the midday meal. There was no other time suitable for the school. We gave three periods at the most to literary training. Hindi, Tamil, Gujarati and Urdu were all taught, and tuition was given through the vernaculars of the boys. English was taught as well, it was also necessary to acquaint the Gujarati Hindu children with a little Samskrit, and to teach all the children elementary history, geography and arithmetic. I had undertaken to teach Tamil and Urdu. The little Tamil I knew was acquired during voyages and in jail. I had not got beyond Pope’s excellent Tamil handbook. My knowledge of the Urdu script was all that I had acquired on a single voyage, and my knowledge of the language was confined to the familiar Persian and Arabic words that I had learnt from contact with Musalman friends. Of Samskrit I knew no more than I had learnt at the high school, even my Gujarati was no better than that which one acquires at the school.

• From Lady Chatterley's Lover (1928)

  A wet brown dog came running and did not bark, lifting a wet feather of a tail. The man followed in a wet black oilskin jacket, like a chauffeur, and face flushed a little. She felt him recoil in his quick walk, when he saw her. She stood up in the handbreadth of dryness under the rustic porch. He saluted without speaking, coming slowly near. She began to withdraw. "I'm just going," she said. "Was yer waitin' to get in?" he asked, looking at the hut, not at her. "No, I only sat a few minutes in the shelter," she said, with quiet dignity. He looked at her. She looked cold. "Sir Clifford 'adn't got no other key, then?" he asked. "No, but it doesn't matter. I can sit perfectly dry under this porch. Good afternoon!" She hated the excess of vernacular in his speech. He watched her closely, as she was moving away. Then he hitched up his jacket, and put his hand in his breeches pocket, taking out the key of the hut. "'Appen yer'd better 'ave this key, an' Ah mun fend for t' bods some other road." She looked at him. "What do you mean?" she asked. "I mean as 'appen Ah can find anuther pleece as'll du for rearin' th' pheasants. If yer want ter be 'ere, yo'll non want me messin' abaht a' th' time." She looked at him, getting his meaning through the fog of the dialect. "Why don't you speak ordinary English?" she said coldly. "Me! Ah thowt it _wor'_ ordinary." She was silent for a few moments in anger. "So if yer want t' key, yer'd better ta'e it. Or 'appen Ah'd better gi'e 't yer termorrer, an' clear all t' stuff aht fust. Would that du for yer?" She became more angry. "I didn't want your key," she said. "I don't want you to clear anything out at all. I don't in the least want to turn you out of your hut, thank you! I only wanted to be able to sit here sometimes, like today. But I can sit perfectly well under the porch, so please say no more about it." He looked at her again, with his wicked blue eyes. "Why," he began, in the broad slow dialect. "Your Ladyship's as welcome as Christmas ter th' hut an' th' key an' iverythink as is. On'y this time o' th' year ther's bods ter set, an' Ah've got ter be potterin' abaht a good bit, seein' after 'em, an' a'. Winter time Ah ned 'ardly come nigh th' pleece. But what wi' Spring, an' Sir Clifford wantin' ter start th' pheasants.... An' your Ladyship'd non want me tinkerin' around an' about when she was 'ere, all th' time." She listened with a dim kind of amazement. "Why should I mind your being here?" she asked. He looked at her curiously.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  But, granted I were indeed magnanimous, thou art none of those towards whom magnanimity should be shown; the issue of punishment, as likewise of vengeance, in the case of wild beasts such as thou art, behoveth to be death, whereas for human beings that should suffice whereof thou speakest. Wherefore, albeit I am no eagle, knowing thee to be no dove, but a venomous serpent, I mean to pursue thee, as an immemorial enemy, with every hate and all my might, albeit this that I do to thee can scarce properly be styled vengeance, but rather chastisement, inasmuch as vengeance should overpass the offence and this will not attain thereto; for that, an I sought to avenge myself, considering to what a pass thou broughtest my soul, thy life, should I take it from thee, would not suffice me, no, nor the lives of an hundred others such as thou, since, slaying thee, I should but slay a vile, wicked and worthless trull of a woman. And what a devil more account (setting aside this thy scantling of fair favour,[388] which a few years will mar, filling it with wrinkles,) art thou than whatsoever other sorry serving-drab? Whereas it was no fault of thine that thou failedst of causing the death of a man of honour, as thou styledst me but now, whose life may yet in one day be of more service to the world than an hundred thousand of thy like could be what while the world endureth. I will teach thee, then, by means of this annoy that thou sufferest, what it is to flout men of sense, and particularly scholars, and will give thee cause never more, an thou comest off alive, to fall into such a folly. But, an thou have so great a wish to descend, why dost thou not cast thyself down? On this wise, with God's help, thou wilt, by breaking thy neck, at once deliver thyself from the torment, wherein it seemeth to thee thou art, and make me the joyfullest man in the world. Now, I have no more to say to thee. I knew to contrive on such wise that I caused thee go up thither; do thou now contrive to come down thence, even as thou knewest to befool me.'

• From The Decameron (1353)

  In this occupation, the greatness of their delight making the time seem brief to them, albeit they had been there a great while, they were surprised, first by the girl's mother and after by Currado, who, chagrined beyond measure at this sight, without saying aught of the cause, had them both seized by three of his serving-men and carried in bonds to a castle of his and went off, boiling with rage and despite and resolved to put them both to a shameful death. The girl's mother, although sore incensed and holding her daughter worthy of the severest punishment for her default, having by certain words of Currado apprehended his intent towards the culprits and unable to brook this, hastened after her enraged husband and began to beseech him that it would please him not run madly to make himself in his old age the murderer of his own daughter and to soil his hands with the blood of one of his servants, but to find other means of satisfying his wrath, such as to clap them in prison and there let them pine and bewail the fault committed. With these and many other words the pious lady so wrought upon him that she turned his mind from putting them to death and he bade imprison them, each in a place apart, where they should be well guarded and kept with scant victual and much unease, till such time as he should determine farther of them. As he bade, so was it done, and what their life was in duresse and continual tears and in fasts longer than might have behoved unto them, each may picture to himself.