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 Paul and Palestinian Judaism (40th Anniversary Edition) (2017)

  And when sin and unrighteousness and blasphemy And violence in all kinds of deeds increase, And apostasy and transgression and uncleanness increase, A great chastisement shall come from heaven upon all these, And the holy Lord will come forth with wrath and chastisement To execute judgement on earth. In those days violence shall be cut off from its roots, And the roots of unrighteousness together with deceit, And they shall be destroyed from under heaven. And all the idols of the heathen shall be abandoned, And the temples burned with fire, And they shall remove them from the whole earth, And they (i.e. the heathen) shall be cast into the judgement of fire, And shall perish in wrath and in grievous judgement for ever. And the righteous shall arise from their sleep, And wisdom shall arise and be given unto them. (91.6-10) The sinners are repeatedly condemned for being rich (cf. also 94.8; 100.6; 104.6), doubtless because their gold and silver has been acquired 'in unrighteousness' (97.8), which apparently involves not just dishonest dealings (they 'build their houses with sin' and acquire gold and silver in judgment, 94.7), but plundering the righteous (104.3). They have behaved violently (91.6; 104.6; cf. 92.18). Those who plunder the righteous do so with the support of the rulers (104.3). They are the 'mighty' (96.8). They persecute the righteous (95.7), rejoice in their tribulation (98.13), and behave unrighteously towards them, or oppress them. 'Oppression' is mentioned in Charles's translation in 94.6; 96.8; 98.6; 98.8; 99.15 (the list is not necessarily 2] I Enoch 353 exhaustive). For 94.6 and 96.8 there is no Greek fragment extant. In 98.6, 'oppression' is in Greek adikon, which is parallel to ta ponera, 'evil deeds'. In 98.8 the Greek word is adikemata; in 99.15 it is apparently adikia; only adi-is left. The Greek could just as well imply other kinds of unrighteousness than 'oppression'. Yet it is clear in any case that the wicked did oppress the righteous. We have already seen that they are violent. They are also said to slay their neighbours (99.15), to 'afflict the righteous and burn them with fire' (100.7), and to 'execute judgement on the righteous' (100.10). It is difficult to determine whether those who so treat the righteous are Gentiles, unrighteous Jews or both. Charles thought that the righteous were the Pharisees and the wicked an alliance of 'the Sadducees, sinners, apostates, and paganizers'.

• From Another Country (1962)

  “No, baby, you sure don’t,” Ida said, “not unless you’re really willing to ask yourself how you’d have made it, if they’d dumped on you what they dumped on Rufus. And you can’t ask yourself that question because there’s no way in the world for you to know what Rufus went through, not in this world, not as long as you’re white.” She smiled. It was the saddest smile Cass had ever seen. “That’s right, baby. That’s where it’s at.” The cab stopped in front of Small’s. “Here we go,” said Ida, jauntily, seeming, in an instant, to drag all of herself up from the depths, as though she were about to walk that mile from the wings to the stage. She glanced quickly at the meter, then opened her handbag. “Let me,” said Cass. “It’s just about the only thing that a poor white woman can still do.” Ida looked at her, and smiled. “Now, don’t you be like that,” she said, “because you can suffer, and you’ve got some suffering to do, believe me.” Cass handed the driver a bill. “You stand to lose everything—your home, your husband, even your children.” Cass sat very still, waiting for her change. She looked like a defiant little girl. “I’ll never give up my children,” she said. “They could be taken from you.” “Yes. It could happen. But it won’t.” She tipped the driver, and they got out of the cab. “It happened,” said Ida, mildly, “to my ancestors every day.” “Maybe,” said Cass, with a sudden flash of anger, and very close to tears, “it happened to all of us! Why was my husband ashamed to speak Polish all the years that he was growing up?—and look at him now, he doesn’t know who he is. Maybe we’re worse off than you.” “Oh,” said Ida, “you are. There’s no maybe about that.” “Then have a little mercy.” “You’re asking a lot.” The men on the sidewalk looked at them with a kind of merciless calculation, deciding that they were certainly unattainable, that their studs or their johns were waiting inside; and, anyway, three white policemen, walking abreast, came up the Avenue. Cass felt, suddenly, exposed, and in danger, and wished she had not come. She thought of herself, later, alone, looking for a taxi; but she did not dare say anything to Ida. Ida opened the doors, and they walked in. “We’re really not dressed for this place,” Cass whispered. “It doesn’t matter,” Ida said. She stared imperiously over the heads of the people at the bar, into the farther room, where the bandstand seemed to be, and the raised dance floor. And her arrogance produced, out of the smoke and confusion, a heavy, dark man who approached them with raised eyebrows. “We’re with Mr. Ellis’s party,” said Ida. “Will you lead us to him, please?”

• From Another Country (1962)

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

• From Another Country (1962)

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

• From Real Life (2020)

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

• From Real Life (2020)

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

• From Another Country (1962)

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

• From Push (1996)

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

• From Real Life (2020)

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

• From Real Life (2020)

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

• From Another Country (1962)

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

• From Real Life (2020)

  Cette baraque, il n’y est resté que cinq minutes, façon de parler, mais c’est comme s’il avait disparu de ma vie entièrement, comme s’il s’était évaporé. D’un coup. Je ne sais pas pourquoi. Je ne saurai jamais pourquoi. Et il avait raison, tu sais ; le pourquoi n’avait pas d’importance. Je n’aurais pas eu le pouvoir de le faire changer d’avis quoi qu’il arrive. Personne ne l’avait. Et la Terre ne s’est pas arrêtée de tourner. Elle ne s’arrête jamais de tourner. La Terre, elle s’en fout, de toi, de moi et de tout ça. Elle continue de tourner. — Wallace… — Non, Miller. Je te l’ai déjà dit, quand on était chez toi. Ça n’a pas d’importance. Je suis en colère tout le temps, et ça n’a pas d’importance. Les gens s’attendent à ce que je réagisse. Que je fasse quelque chose. Or je ne peux pas. Parce que je n’arrête pas d’y penser – quoi que je fasse, mes actions n’ont pas le pouvoir de changer ce que je voudrais qu’elles changent. Je ne peux pas revenir en arrière. Je ne peux pas effacer les choses. Je ne peux pas réécrire l’histoire. Ça n’a pas d’importance. Tu as fait ça. Ça fait partie de nous, maintenant. Ça fait partie de notre histoire. Tu ne peux pas prendre ça et le rejeter à l’eau comme un poisson que tu aurais pêché. Tu ne peux pas remplacer ça comme une vitre cassée. C’est là, et point. C’est permanent. — Je ne comprends pas, dit Miller. Je ne comprends pas ce que tu veux dire. Le fait que ce soit arrivé ne signifie pas qu’on ne puisse pas en parler. À mon avis, c’est tout le contraire, non ? Il faut qu’on en parle. » Wallace secoue la tête, et le geste lui donne le vertige. Il place l’oreiller sur son visage et soupire, laissant son haleine imprégner le tissu. Il a envie de hurler. Il ne sait pas comment la communiquer à Miller, cette sensation qu’il a, l’inutilité de ces mots qui emplissent la pièce. Il a la gorge brûlante et sèche. Il aimerait plonger la tête sous l’eau et boire pour une éternité. « Je crois que c’est toute la différence entre nous. Tu veux en parler. Et je ne vois pas l’utilité. — Je ne peux pas faire comme si ce n’était pas arrivé. » Wallace sourit, lentement, sous l’oreiller. « Mais justement, Miller. Je n’ai pas besoin d’en parler pour savoir que c’est arrivé. — Alors pourquoi n’es-tu pas plus en colère contre moi ?

• From Real Life (2020)

  Roman l’observe. « Fascinant », fait Roman. « Fais-toi examiner les yeux », dit Wallace avec beaucoup plus de désinvolture qu’il n’en mérite. « Pour mieux te regarder », réplique Roman avec un grand sourire. « Excuse-moi, dit-il. Emma, hé, faut que je me lève. — Pourquoi ? » proteste-t-elle, maintenant qu’elle est bien installée. « Toilettes », dit Wallace doucement, aussi doucement qu’il peut. Et il se dégage et se met debout. Roman le suit toujours des yeux lorsqu’il monte les marches de la maison. Il sent le poids de son regard, la pression. Wallace parvient à grand-peine jusqu’aux toilettes, où il vomit. Tout le dîner remonte. La cuvette se remplit. Son estomac se soulève jusqu’à ce qu’il se sente de nouveau brûlant et tout rouge. Il a la tête en feu, et chaque respiration fait souffrir une nouvelle partie de son corps. Il hait Roman. Il le hait tellement qu’il pourrait le tuer à mains nues. Il est assis sur le bord de la baignoire, suçant un glaçon qu’il a récupéré dans le saladier en inox dans la cuisine, quand on frappe doucement à la porte. Il suppose que c’est Emma, donc il ne dit rien. Soit elle comprendra, soit elle entrera. Il fait tourner la glace sur ses lèvres et sa langue. Il essaie de se calmer. On frappe encore, avec plus d’insistance cette fois, et Miller dit : « Wallace, tu es toujours dedans ? — Oh, désolé, tu as besoin d’y aller ? » Miller ouvre la porte et entre. Il s’assoit sur le couvercle des toilettes. « Qu’est-ce qui s’est passé dehors ? J’ai levé les yeux, t’avais disparu. — Rien, je me sentais un peu bizarre, alors je suis rentré. » Miller pose la main sur son front et fait la grimace. « T’es malade ? T’as de la fièvre ? — Non. Ni l’un ni l’autre. — T’es chaud, pourtant. — C’est l’été. » Wallace suce son glaçon. Miller l’observe attentivement. « Tu veux t’allonger ? Il fait plus frais dans ma chambre, la clim est allumée. » L’idée d’être à l’écart, seul dans une pièce sombre et fraîche, le séduit. « Oui », dit-il, et Miller pose la main à la base de sa nuque. « OK. Allons-y. » Ils montent l’escalier de la maison plongée dans la pénombre et tournent à gauche sur le palier. La chambre de Miller est tout en longueur, avec des angles irréguliers. Il y a une fenêtre circulaire qui donne sur le lac au loin. Il y a des plans et des cartes postales aux murs, et des livres dans une étagère bien pleine sous le rebord de la fenêtre, où sont posés des oreillers et une épaisse couverture en flanelle. Le lit est grand et confortable, avec une couette moelleuse. La chambre sent l’odeur de Miller – les oranges et le sel. Son vélo est appuyé contre le placard. Le plancher craque sous leurs pas. « Et voilà », dit Miller, montrant le lit.

• From The Decameron (1353)

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

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

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

• From Another Country (1962)

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

• From Push (1996)

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

• From The Decameron (1353)

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

• From Little Women (1868)

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

• From Little Women (1868)

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