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.

Page 356 of 447 · 20 per page

• From Amplified Holy Bible (2015)

  [Zech 3:1–10 ; Rom 8:33 , 34 ] 12 “Therefore rejoice, O heavens and you who dwell in them [in the presence of God]. Woe to the earth and the sea, because the devil has come down to you in great wrath, knowing that he has only a short time [remaining]!” [Is 44:23 ; 49:13 ] 13 And when the dragon saw that he was thrown down to the earth, he persecuted the woman who had given birth to the male Child . 14 But the two wings of the great eagle were given to the woman, so that she could fly into the wilderness to her place, where she was nourished for a time and times and half a time (three and one-half years), away from the presence of the serpent (Satan). [Ex 19:4 ; Deut 32:10 , 11 ; Is 40:31 ; Dan 7:25 ; 12:7 ] 15 And the serpent hurled water like a river out of his mouth after the woman, so that he might cause her to be swept away with the flood. 16 But the earth helped the woman, and the earth opened its mouth and swallowed up the river which the dragon had hurled out of his mouth. [Ex 15:12 ] 17 So the dragon was enraged with the woman, and he went off to wage war on the rest of her children (seed), those who keep and obey the commandments of God and have the testimony of Jesus [holding firmly to it and bearing witness to Him]. Revelation 13 The Beast from the Sea 1 A ND THE a dragon (Satan) stood on the sandy shore of the sea. [Dan 7:7 ] T hen I saw a [vicious] beast coming up out of the sea with ten horns and seven heads, and on his horns were ten royal b crowns (diadems), and on his heads were blasphemous names. 2 And the beast that I saw resembled a c leopard, but his feet were like those of a bear, and his mouth was like that of a lion. And the dragon gave him his power and his throne and great authority. 3 I saw one of his heads which seemed to have a fatal wound, but his fatal wound was healed; and the entire earth followed after the beast in amazement. 4 They fell down and worshiped the dragon because he gave his authority to the beast; they also worshiped the beast, saying, “Who is like (as great as) the beast, and who is able to wage war against him?” 5 And the beast was given a mouth (the power of speech), uttering great things and arrogant and blasphemous words, and he was given freedom and authority to act and to do as he pleased for d forty-two months (three and a half years).

• From How to Deal with Angry People (2023)

  One of the interesting things about online communication is how often people go out of their way to explicitly communicate their emotions (without just stating them). They feel the need to use ALL CAPS, angry faces, extra exclamation points, bold text, or a variety of other mechanisms to indicate that they are angry. Those approaches are not terribly compelling, though, if you’re actually trying to change a person’s mind or engage in a healthy conversation about something. They likely come across as superfluous and weaken the broader point you’re trying to make. There’s nothing wrong with telling someone you’re angry in an email, but it’s likely better to just say you are angry without the need to express it via a frowny face. It’s not that you should never use emoticons or emojis when you communicate. There’s a time and place for them, particularly the positive ones. Emoticons and emojis can be used to lighten mood and to signal something emotional that is unclear from the text.* A smiley face, for instance, might make it clear something was a joke or was intended to be lighthearted (for example, “That’s assuming I don’t quit my job before then. :)”). A sad face might signal that you are feeling particularly down about something (“I can’t go out tonight because I have an early morning meeting. :( ”). But they can also be used as a sort of passive-aggressive form of online communication where the author intends or pretends to lighten an aggressive comment with a smiley face or LOL (“Hopefully, you’ll be on time for once. LOL”). Ultimately, be thoughtful about what emotions you try to express this way and how you choose to express them. Have Someone Read Your Response Before You Send/Post It Emotionality, especially anger, can often act as a lens by which people interpret the things they read. That means that the person you are responding to might misunderstand the intent of what you wrote because they were angry at the time they read it. It is similarly possible that your own emotionality, in response to their anger, might influence what you wrote in ways you don’t realize. For both of these reasons, it’s smart to have someone read what you wrote before you send it or post it. Getting another pair of fresh eyes on it prior to sending it can

• From Henry Miller on Writing (1964)

  Especially, need I add, the sexual eruptions. They represent my endeavor, successful or not, to portray the whole man. It is my contention, of course, that modern literature suffers precisely because, for one reason or another, writers in general now abstain from giving us man in all the heights and depths of his being. And the public, long inured to this prescribed sort of amputation, no longer deeply cares. Indeed, there is little revolt of any sort left in modern man. He no longer acts, he reacts. He is the victim who at long last has been caught in his own trap. What I am trying to say by all this is that the question to what extent a writer may be permitted to speak freely and naturally—on any question, any subject—is only part of a greater question, in a word: what is freedom ? Men will fight and die, apparently, for greater political or economic freedom, perhaps even for religious freedom, but when it comes to education—what and how our children should be taught—or the right to speak and act freely in the domain of sex, or even to write about sex openly, honestly, unashamedly, they display striking little courage. So it seems to me, at any rate. Yet sex and education are of cardinal importance in the creation of any social fabric. Indeed, there are many today who are convinced that most of our woes stem from our reluctance or our inability to cope with these fundamental issues. To get back to the core of the matter…. I repeat that, in writing The Rosy Crucifixion , I had but one thought in mind-to tell the story of the crucial years which marked a turning point in my life, and to relate my experiences (good and bad) as honestly and as faithfully as possible. In short, to expose the whole man and thus, obliquely, the society which fostered him. It therefore seems somewhat ridiculous to be asked, as I often am, whether I could not have written otherwise, meaning—could I not have rendered my words and thoughts more palatable, less offensive to public taste. (Who are the arbiters of taste, by the way?) This same sort of question has been put to every innovator throughout the ages. I should like to add, moreover, that I very much question the wisdom, the purity and the understanding of the so-called guardians of morality who so brashly assume responsibility for the mental, moral and spiritual health of the dear public. What tests have they undergone to earn the right to judge and condemn those who do not subscribe to their view of life? No, the real protectors, not of the “public” but of humanity, are never moralists but rather men of spirit. These men I revere. They do not talk good and evil, they talk God. They do not judge, punish and condemn; they show compassion. And what is compassion if not understanding tempered by love?

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Now I laugh for that I mind me of the simplicity of Bernabo, who was fool enough to lay five thousand florins to one that I would not bring his wife to do my pleasure; the which I did and won the wager; whereupon he, who should rather have punished himself for his stupidity than her for doing that which all women do, returned from Paris to Genoa and there, by what I have since heard, caused her put to death.' Sicurano, hearing this, understood forthwith what was the cause of Bernabo's anger against his wife[134] and manifestly perceiving this fellow to have been the occasion of all her ills, determined not to let him go unpunished therefor. Accordingly he feigned to be greatly diverted with the story and artfully clapped up a strait acquaintance with him, insomuch that, the fair being ended, Ambrogiuolo, at his instance, accompanied him, with all his good, to Alexandria. Here Sicurano let build him a warehouse and lodged in his hands store of his own monies; and Ambrogiuolo, foreseeing great advantage to himself, willingly took up his abode there. Meanwhile, Sicurano, careful to make Bernabo clear of his[135] innocence, rested not till, by means of certain great Genoese merchants who were then in Alexandria, he had, on some plausible occasion of his[136] own devising, caused him come thither, where finding him in poor enough case, he had him privily entertained by a friend of his[137] against it should seem to him[138] time to do that which he purposed. Now he had already made Ambrogiuolo recount his story before the Soldan for the latter's diversion; but seeing Bernabo there and thinking there was no need to use farther delay in the matter, he took occasion to procure the Soldan to have Ambrogiuolo and Bernabo brought before him and in the latter's presence, to extort from the former, by dint of severity, an it might not easily be done [by other means,] the truth of that whereof he vaunted himself concerning Bernabo's wife. Accordingly, they both being come, the Soldan, in the presence of many, with a stern countenance commanded Ambrogiuolo to tell the truth how he had won of Bernabo the five thousand gold florins; and Sicurano himself, in whom he most trusted, with a yet angrier aspect, threatened him with the most grievous torments, an he told it not; whereupon Ambrogiuolo, affrighted on one side and another and in a measure constrained, in the presence of Bernabo and many others, plainly related everything, even as it passed, expecting no worse punishment therefor than the restitution of the five thousand gold florins and of the stolen trinkets.

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

  4. Exodus: From Egypt to Sinai 26 J’s story is different. God tells Moses to prepare the people because God will appear on Mount Sinai before them all in 3 days (19:11). Then, Moses and some other leaders go up the mountain and actually see God (24:10). God and Moses have a chat, but no laws are given. In fact, God just tells Moses to leave Sinai and head toward Canaan (33:1). But in this story, God is angry. Since they left Egypt, the Israelites have been complaining nonstop, demonstrating a basic lack of faith in God’s ability to provide for them. God has had enough. But Moses convinces God to stick around and even gets a view of Yahweh’s back. The J story culminates with God declaring his own character: “The Lord, a god compassionate and gracious, slow to anger, abounding in kindness and faithfulness ... yet he does not remit all punishment” (34:6–7). Finally, the P story is totally different. With the Israelites encamped at Sinai, God comes down on the mountain, shrouded in a cloud for 6 days and calling to Moses on day 7. Moses goes up, and God talks to him for all of Exodus 25 to 31. God doesn’t give any laws. Instead, he provides Moses with a blueprint for the Tabernacle. Each of these stories speaks to different aspects of God’s relationship to Israel. E emphasizes the prophetic aspect and Israel’s obligation to listen when the prophets speak. J emphasizes God’s twin aspects of compassion and wrath. And P emphasizes God’s dwelling in the midst of Israel. Reading Baden, Joel. The Book of Exodus: A Biography. Princeton University Press, 2019. Greenberg, Moshe. Understanding Exodus. Cascade, 2013. 27 5 Leviticus and the Priestly Writings L eviticus belongs to the Priestly story, in which it is placed just after the construction of the Tabernacle— the most important thing that’s ever happened in Israelite history, at least in the Priestly world. The Tabernacle is the dwelling place of God, complete with a table, a lamp, and a seat. God will dwell in this structure, in the midst of Israel, now and forever. Exactly a year after the Exodus, the Tabernacle is finally finished (Exod. 40:17). And, as promised, God takes up residence there. Now, all communication between God and Moses will take place from the Tabernacle. According to P’s internal calendar, the giving of Leviticus’s laws takes a month and 20 days— but it occupies an entire book, which you will explore in this lecture.

• From How to Deal with Angry People (2023)

  When the person right in front of them spoke to the host, that person was told their reservation had been lost. The person reacted with one of two emotions (depending on the version of the story), anger or sadness, either crying or yelling about how the restaurant had ruined their evening. That person than left the restaurant either visibly angry or visibly sad. The vignette ended with the participant then going to the host and being told that their reservation had also been lost. We then asked participants to indicate how angry, sad, scared, or happy they would feel if this happened to them. Obviously, no one indicated that they would feel happy and very few indicated that they would feel scared. How angry or sad they became, though, depended in part on whether or not the person in front of them in line was angry or sad. The participants who had an angry person in line in front of them got angrier. The participants who had a sad person ahead of them got sadder. They essentially used the emotion of the person in front of them as an indicator of how they should feel in that moment. You can think of this as a variation of that social referencing I described in the previous chapter. We look to those around us, knowingly or unknowingly, to see how we should feel in a given moment. ANGER FACT Injustice is a greater source of anger than having your goals blocked, according to survey responses gathered by The Anger Project.35 There’s a good reason we do this and it’s rooted in our evolutionary history. When we are in a group of people, it’s advantageous for us to feel what they are feeling and to act accordingly. Our ancestors, human and nonhuman, for instance, would have benefited from this sort emotional contagion. If the people around me are scared, there might be a real threat to our safety, so I should be scared too. If the people around me are angry, we might have been wronged or treated unfairly, so I should be angry too. Since our emotions are motivators that encourage us to protect ourselves by fleeing or fighting back, those emotional cues I get from the people around might be lifesaving. Emotional contagion is a well-studied phenomenon with research linking it to everything from empathy enhancement to workplace burnout. It is relevant to one-on-one interactions, small group dynamics at work, friends, families, and larger scale events like protests, mobs, and riots.

• From How to Deal with Angry People (2023)

  TIP Pay attention to patterns in how and why a person gets angry. Being able to identify those patterns allows you to better work through potential angry incidents in the future. When the Anger is Warranted Of course, there is one more reason why we might want to think about the anger from the other person’s perspective. In the case above, I wasn’t at fault. I didn’t do anything wrong (this time) and my boss’s anger at me was misdirected. But that isn’t always the case. Sometimes we really are at fault for something and the other person’s anger at us – not necessarily their treatment of us, but their anger at us – is justified. How can we deal with angry people when the anger is warranted? We come on to this in the next chapter. * This study also revealed that boys expressed “significantly more overt anger and less overt sadness than did girls,” and there was no age difference here so the gendered learning of emotional expressions we discussed in chapter 3 seems to happen before the age of three. * I am once again impressed by how meticulous researchers can be in their efforts (and once again irritated by how quick the general population is to ignore said research because of their anecdotal evidence). * Admittedly, one of the things I wonder about this study is if another interpretation could be that adults don’t improve much on this skill after age six. If someone did a study that found that most kids can read as well at age six as most adults, we would be concerned about adult readers, right? * Obviously, there are a bunch of contextual factors that will influence how angry you get in a situation like this: your relationship with this co-worker; their history of finishing tasks on time; how important the project was; whether you understand and trust their explanation; the consequences of their having not completed it. These things all matter, but they are also up to some degree of interpretation and appraisal, and that comes later. * In his defense, I was not very good at this job. During my short time there I broke multiple tractors and had a very unfortunate incident where I covered the kitchen, including one of the owners, with about six gallons of unfiltered apple cider. * For reasons I can’t fully explain, it really bothered him that I didn’t own a watch. I suspect it was an unwritten rule he had for how responsible people should behave (“responsible people have watches”). It’s sort of funny because I always knew what time it was and I wasn’t chronically late by any means (there were plenty of clocks around), but he really wanted me to own a watch anyway.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  She stared at him aghast: “ How dare you! ’ she stammered, ‘ How dare you try to undermine my courage! You call yourself my friend and you say things like that . . .’ ‘It’s your courage that I appeal to,’ he answered. He began to speak very quietly again: ‘ Stephen, if I stay I’m going to fight you. Do you understand? We’ll fight this thing out until one of us has to admit that he’s beaten. I’! do all in my power to take Mary from you —all that’s honourable, that is—for I mean to play straight, because whatever you may think I’m your friend, only, you see —I love Mary Llewellyn.’ And now she struck back. She said rather slowly, watching his sensitive face as she did so: ‘ You seem to have thought it all out very well, but then of course, our friendship has given you Umea a THE WELL OF LONELINESS 493 He flinched and she smiled, knowing how she could wound: * Perhaps,’ she went on, ‘ you'll tell me your plans. Supposing you win, do I give the wedding? Is Mary to marry you from my house, or would that be a grave social disadvantage? And supposing she should want to leave me quite soon for love of you — where would you take her, Martin? To your aunt’s for respectability’s sake? ’ ‘Don’t, Stephen! ’ ‘ But why not? I’ve a right to know because, you see, I also love Mary, I also consider her reputation. Yes, I think on the whole we’ll discuss your plans.’ * She’d always be welcome at my aunt’s,’ he said firmly. ‘ And you'll take her there if she runs away to you? One never knows what may happen, does one? You say that she cares for you already . His eyes Paden: ‘If Mary will have me, Stephen, I shall take her first to my aunt’s house in Passy.’ ‘And then?’ she mocked. ‘I shall marry her from there.’ < And then? ’ “I shall take her back to my home.’ “To Canada — I see — a safe distance of course.’ He held out his hand: ‘ Oh, for God’s sake, don’t! It’s so hor- rible somehow — be merciful, Stephen.’ She laughed bitterly: “ Why should I be merciful to you? Isn’t it enough that I accept your challenge, that I offer you the freedom of my house, that I don’t turn you out and forbid you to come here? Come by all means, whenever you like. You may even re- peat our conversation to Mary; I shall not do so, but don’t let that stop you if you think you may possibly gain some advantage.’ He shook his head: ‘ No, I shan’t repeat it.’ ‘Oh, well, that must be as you think best. J propose to behave as though nothing had happened — and now I must get along with my work.’

• From Amplified Holy Bible (2015)

  8 “Why is it thought incredible by [any of] you that God raises the dead? 9 “So then, I [once] thought to myself that it was my duty to do many things in opposition to the name of Jesus of Nazareth. 10 “And this is just what I did in Jerusalem; I not only locked up many of the saints (God’s people) in prison after receiving authority from the chief priests, but also when they were being condemned to death, I b cast my vote against them. 11 “And I often punished them [making them suffer] in all the synagogues and tried to force them to blaspheme; and in my extreme rage at them, I kept hunting them even to foreign cities [harassing and persecuting them]. 12 “While so engaged, as I was traveling to Damascus with the authority and commission and full power of the chief priests, 13 at midday, O King, I saw on the way a light from heaven surpassing the brightness of the sun, shining all around me and those who were traveling with me. 14 “And when we all had fallen to the ground, I heard a voice in the Hebrew dialect (Jewish Aramaic) saying to me, ‘Saul, Saul, why are you persecuting Me? c It is hard for you to kick [repeatedly] against the d goads [offering pointless resistance].’ 15 “And I said, ‘Who are You, Lord?’ And the Lord said, ‘I am Jesus whom you are persecuting. 16 ‘Get up and stand on your feet. I have appeared to you for this purpose, to appoint you [to serve] as a minister and as a witness [to testify, with authority,] not only to the things which you have seen, but also to the things in which I will appear to you, 17 [choosing you for Myself and] rescuing you from the Jewish people and from the Gentiles, to whom I am sending you, [Ezek 2:1 , 3 ] 18 to open their [spiritual] eyes so that they may turn from darkness to light and from the power of Satan to God, that they may receive forgiveness and release from their sins and an inheritance among those who have been sanctified (set apart, made holy) by faith in Me.’ [Is 42:7 , 16 ] 19 “So, King Agrippa, I was not disobedient to the heavenly vision, 20 but I openly proclaimed first to those at Damascus, then at Jerusalem and throughout the region of Judea, and even to the Gentiles, that they should repent [change their inner self—their old way of thinking] and turn to God, doing deeds and living lives which are consistent with repentance. 21 “Because of this some Jews seized me in the temple and tried to kill me.

• From Another Country (1962)

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

• From Push (1996)

  I usually do. I just wanna gone get the fuck out of I.S. 146 and go to high school and get my diploma. Anyway I'm in Mrs Lichenstein's office. She's looking at me, I'm looking at her. I don't say nuffin'. Finally she say, "So Claireece, I see we're expecting a little visitor." But it's not like a question, she's telling me. I still don't say nuffin'. She staring at me, from behind her big wooden desk, she got her white bitch hands folded together on top her desk. "Claireece." Everybody call me Precious. I got three names— Claireece Precious Jones. Only mutherfuckers I hate call me Claireece. "How old are you Claireece?" White cunt box got my file on her desk. I see it. I ain't that late to lunch. Bitch know how old I am. "Sixteen is ahh rather ahh"—she clear her throat — "old to still be in junior high school." I still don't say nuffin'. She know so much let her ass do the talking. "Come now, you are pregnant, aren't you Claireece?" She asking now, a few seconds ago the hoe just knew what I was. "Claireece?" She tryin' to talk all gentle now and shit. "Claireece, I'm talking to you." I still don't say nuffin'. This hoe is keeping me from maff class. I like maff class. Mr Wicher like me in there, need me to keep those rowdy niggers in line. He nice, wear a dope suit every day. He do not come to school looking like some of these other nasty ass teachers. "I don't want to miss no more of maff class," I tell stupid ass Mrs Lichenstein. She look at me like I said I wanna suck a dog's dick or some shit. What's with this cunt bucket? (That's what my muver call women she don't like, cunt buckets. I kinda get it and I kinda don't get it, but I like the way it sounds so I say it too.) I get up to go, Mrs Lichenstein ax me to please sit down, she not through with me yet. But I'm through with her, thas what she don't get. "This is your second baby?" she says. I wonder what else it say in that file with my name on it. I hate her. "I think we should have a parent-teacher conference Claireece—me, you, and your mom." "For what?" I say. "I am' done nuffin'. I doose my work. I am' in no trouble. My grades is good." Mrs Lichenstein look at me like I got three arms or a bad odor out my pussy or something. What my muver gon' do I want to say. What is she gonna do? But I don't say that. I jus' say, "My muver is busy." "Well maybe I could arrange to come to your house—" The look on my face musta hit her, which is what I was gonna do if she said one more word. Come to my house!

• From Real Life (2020)

  Son travail est une insulte pour les autres. Elle le déteste parce qu’il travaille, mais il travaille seulement pour éviter que les gens le haïssent et résilient sa place dans le monde. Il travaille seulement pour s’en sortir dans la vie avec les moyens qui sont les siens. Rien de tout cela ne le sauvera, il le voit maintenant. Rien de tout cela ne peut le sauver. Wallace tourne le bouton et éteint sa flamme, craignant un instant d’avoir appuyé trop fort sur la manette et brisé l’interrupteur. Mais la manette supporte son poids. Il se tourne ensuite vers Dana, qui halète, pathétique. Elle a le visage rouge. Les yeux luisants. Il s’approche d’elle, toujours assise sur le bureau. Le bout de ses chaussures touche le devant de son pantalon. Ce n’est pas de la haine. Il ne la hait pas. Parce qu’elle compte si peu pour lui. Ce serait comme haïr une enfant. Cela le rendrait pareil à ses parents qui, sans nul doute, l’avaient haï, lui, à leur manière. Et il ne veut pas être comme eux. Mais il ne parvient pas à se forcer à la bonté. À la générosité. « Je t’emmerde, Dana », dit-il enfin, et ça le soulage, à tel point qu’il lui est brièvement reconnaissant d’avoir rendu ça possible. « Franchement, je t’emmerde. » Une bouffée d’air le ragaillardit. Il récupère son étui à raquette dans l’étagère au sol, et pendant tout ce temps, elle le fixe comme si elle venait de recevoir une gifle. Il se redresse. Ils échangent un nouveau regard. Elle semble sur le point d’ajouter quelque chose, mais il tourne les talons et s’éloigne dans l’ombre bleue qui a envahi le labo maintenant que les lumières sont éteintes. Le capteur de mouvements ne se met pas en marche, comme si Wallace faisait partie intégrante de ce lieu, comme s’il était un fantôme. Dana crie après lui, qu’elle n’a pas terminé, qu’il n’a pas le droit de couper court à la conversation sans la laisser s’exprimer. Elle hurle parce qu’elle ne sait pas quoi faire d’autre de sa peur et de sa colère, et bien vite ses cris se transforment en sanglots. Mais Wallace traverse déjà le hall. Le hall est trop éclairé, aveuglant. Ses pas résonnent. Il marche vigoureusement. Il a le pas lourd. Sa mère se moquait tout le temps de lui. Tu piétines ; tu ne regardes jamais où tu mets les pieds. Maintenant il le fait. Il voit le voile mince de son ombre sur le sol. Dépasse la cuisine, dépasse la porte du labo de Miller. « Hé ! », lance Miller.

• From Henry Miller on Writing (1964)

  Pause. “What I’d like to do with this bloody novel—only Pop might not feel the same way—is to charge through it like a drunken Cossack. Russia, Russia, where are you heading? On, on, like the whirlwind! The only way I can be myself is to smash things. I’ll never write a book to suit the publishers. I’ve written too many books. Sleep-walking books. You know what I mean. Millions and millions of words—all in the head. They’re banging around up there, like gold pieces. I’m tired of making gold pieces. I’m sick of these cavalry charges … in the dark. Every word I put down now must be an arrow that goes straight to the mark. A poisoned arrow. I want to kill off books, writers, publishers, readers. To write for the public doesn’t mean a thing to me. What I’d like is to write for madmen—or for the angels.” I paused and a curious smile came over my face at the thought which had entered my head. “That landlady of ours, I wonder what she’d think if she heard me talking this way? She’s too good to us, don’t you think? She doesn’t know us. She’d never believe what a walking pogrom I am. Nor has she any idea why I’m so crazy about Sirota and that bloody synagogue music.” I pulled up short. “What the hell has Sirota got to do with it anyway?” “Yes, Val, you’re excited. Put it in the book. Don’t waste yourself in talk!” Such Exquisite Torture—NexusSometimes I would sit at the machine for hours without writing a line. Fired by an idea, often an irrelevant one, my thoughts would come too fast to be transcribed. I would be dragged along at a gallop, like a stricken warrior tied to his chariot. On the wall at my right there were all sorts of memoranda tacked up: a long list of words, words that bewitched me and which I intended to drag in by the scalp if necessary; reproductions of paintings, by Uccello, della Francesca, Breughel, Giotto, Memling; titles of books from which I meant to deftly lift passages; phrases filched from my favorite authors, not to quote but to remind me how to twist things occasionally; for example: “The worm that would gnaw her bladder” or “the pulp which had deglutinized behind his forehead.” In the Bible were slips of paper to indicate where gems were to be found. The Bible was a veritable diamond mine. Every time I looked up a passage I became intoxicated. In the dictionary were place marks for lists of one kind or another: flowers, birds, trees, reptiles, gems, poisons, and so on. In short, I had fortified myself with a complete arsenal. But what was the result? Pondering over a word like praxis, for example, or pleroma, my mind would wander like a drunken wasp.

• From Henry Miller on Writing (1964)

  But since the wife had no friends to visit her and since my friends didn’t give a fuck if it were suspended from the chandelier, I kept it in the parlor and I put all the extra chairs we had around it in a big circle and then I sat down comfortably and I put my feet up on the desk and dreamed of what I would write if I could write. I had a spittoon alongside of the desk, a big brass one from the same establishment, and I would spit in it now and then to remind myself that it was there. All the pigeon-holes were empty and all the drawers were empty; there wasn’t a thing on the desk or in it except a sheet of white paper on which I found it impossible to put so much as a pot-hook. When I think of the titanic efforts I made to canalize the hot lava which was bubbling inside me, the efforts I repeated thousands of times to bring the funnel into place and capture a word, a phrase, I think inevitably of the men of the old stone age. A hundred thousand, two hundred thousand years, three hundred thousand years to arrive at the idea of the paleolith. A phantom struggle, because they weren’t dreaming of such a thing as the paleolith. It came without effort, born of a second, a miracle you might say, except that everything which happens is miraculous. Things happen or they don’t happen, that’s all. Nothing is accomplished by sweat and struggle. Nearly everything which we call life is just insomnia, an agony because we’ve lost the habit of falling asleep. We don’t know how to let go. We’re like a Jack-in-the-box perched on top of a spring and the more we struggle the harder it is to get back in the box. I think if I had been crazy I couldn’t have hit upon a better scheme to consolidate my anchorage than to install this Neanderthal object in the middle of the parlor. With my feet on the desk, picking up the current, and my spinal column snugly socketed in a thick leather cushion, I was in an ideal relation to the flotsam and jetsam which was whirling about me, and which, because they were crazy and part of the flux, my friends were trying to convince me was life. I remember vividly the first contact with reality that I got through my feet, so to speak. The million words or so which I had written previously, which were intelligible words, mind you, well ordered, well connected, were as nothing to me—crude ciphers from the old stone age—because the contact was through the head and the head is a useless appendage unless you’re anchored in mid-channel deep in the mud.

• From Push (1996)

  In keeping with the new initiative on welfare reform I feel Precious would benefit from any of the various workfare programs in existence. Despite her obvious intellectual limitations she is quite capable of working as a home attendant." ("A home attendant? I don't wanna be no mutherfucking home attendant! I wanna be—" "HUSH!" Jermaine say.) "My rapport with Precious is minimal. Although I am not sure with whom, she evidently has access to counseling services provided by Each One Teach One. She has a history of sexual abuse and is HIV positive." ("She say she not put that in my file! Bitch!" "If you told it to her it's in there. That's that bitch's job, to get the goods on you!" Jermaine say.) "The client seems to view the social service system and its proponents as her enemies, and yet while she mentions independent living, seems to envision social services, AFDC, as taking care of her forever." Jermaine hand me the file. "No way!" I scream. "I'm getting my G.E.D., a job, and a place for me and Abdul, then I go to college. I don't wanna 'home attend' nobody." "Be quiet!" Jermaine hiss. "And put this shit back before you get in trouble!" I just sit there. She push the file at me again. "Put this away. We'll talk about it with Ms Rain in the morning." "Let's put our chairs in a circle class," Ms Rain say, "and do a little writing in our journals, then we'll talk. If you want to focus on the topic introduced by Precious—" "What topic?" Aisha, loud India girl from Guyana. "Workfare and education." "What about it?" Bunny, real skinny girl wif broke teeth, say. "Anything about it or nothing at all; if you want to focus on the topic fine but you don't have to if you don't want to. You have twenty minutes to write in your journal." She look at her watch, then say, "GO." 5/3/89 It's not like I in no big state of shock. I knew white bitch had something up her sleeve. Ms Weiss. Fuck her. I don't need her if all she see for me is wiping ol white people's ass. I ain been going threw all this learning to read and write so I be no mutherfucking home attendint. Rhonda usta hafta go all the way out to Brighton Beech wher she work for them mutherfuckers. If I'm working twelve hours a day, sleeping in peoples houses like what Rhonda usta do, who will take care of Abdul? The ol white peoples had her there all day and night, "on call," they call it. But you only get pay for 8 hours (is the other 16 hours slavry?) so that's 8 x $3.35 = $26.80 dollars a day, but then you is not really getting that much cause you is working more than eight hours a day.

• From Henry Miller on Writing (1964)

  In my early twenties, confined to my father’s shop, a slave to the most idiotic kind of routine imaginable, I broke out—inside. Inwardly I was a perpetual volcano. I will never forget the walks to and from my father’s shop every day: the tremendous dialogues I had with my “characters,” the scenes I portrayed, and so on. And never a line of any of this ever put to paper. Where would you begin if you were a smothered volcano? And then, after the first attempt at a book—when with the Western Union and married to that woman B——, my first wife—I dream of making my entry into the lists—by the back door. To write something that will sell, that people will read, that will permit me to say—“There is my name signed to it, you see.” Proof. And then the break, thanks to June, the plunge. And I am free, spoon-fed, have leisure, paper, everything, but can’t do it. Oh yes, I do write, but how painfully, and how poorly, how imitatively. And then when June left for France with her friend Jean Kronski, then I broke, then I mapped out my whole career. And even then, think of it, even after leaving for France, three years later, I still do not begin that great work. I write Tropic of Cancer , which was not in the schema—but of the moment. I suppose one could liken it to the volcano’s eruption, or the breaking of the crust. (Only, let me say it as knows, it was such a feeble eruption compared to those imaginary street-walking ones I had every day, inwardly, walking to and from my father’s shop!) How well I know the tremendous décalage between what one wishes to do and what one does! Nowhere in my work have I come anywhere near to expressing what I meant to express. Now, if you can believe this, and I am sure you must because you must also suffer it, then imagine what sort of beast it is that a woman, any woman, has to live with who marries a writer. Imagine what happens to one who never says all, never does all, who smiles and nods his head in that civilized way and is all the while a raging bull. Well, what happens is that either the writer gains the upper hand eventually, or the man. One or the other must take the lead. My effort has been to give the lead to the man in me. (With what success others know best.) But there is no war involved, you must understand. It is rather a matter of leaning more this way than that, of shifting the emphasis and so forth. And I do not want to be a saint! Morality, in fact, drops out of the picture. Maybe the writer will drop out too. Or the man.

• From Every Woman's Battle: Discovering God's Plan for Sexual and Emotional Fulfillment (2003)

  I fumed for several days until I finally blew my top while standing in the kitchen crying into my tuna salad. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve stopped sending you cards each week! You’ve never once sent me a card! Do you know how much that hurts? Or do you even care?” My outburst shocked Greg, who waited until my screaming silenced to softly respond, “But I mow your yard each week…and I wash your car…and I…” “Well of course you do those things,” I interrupted, “You live here too! Those are your responsibilities!” “But I do them out of love for you, Shannon!” I wasn’t convinced until Greg brought home the book I mentioned in chapter 6, The Five Love Languages by Gary Chapman. We read the book together and I realized that Greg was right. “Acts of service” is a legitimate love language and although it isn’t my primary love language (mine is gifts), it is Greg’s primary way of expressing love to me. I also learned that the same way Greg’s acts of service didn’t fill my love tank, my Hallmark cards weren’t really floating his boat either. Our love languages are opposite each other—his highest (acts of service and physical touch) are my lowest, and my highest (gifts and words of affirmation) are his lowest. We’ve had to be very intentional about speaking and understanding the other person’s love language so that we can recognize each other’s loving expressions. One anniversary not long afterward, Greg gave me a gift that I will never forget. It was a Hallmark card (finally!), but this one was full of hundreds of little pink squares of paper. At first I thought this was his meager attempt at surprising me with homemade confetti, but as I read the card, it touched me far more deeply than confetti ever could. It read: Shannon, I know that I don’t do near as good of a job expressing my love to you as you want me to. I’m not making any excuses, but my one desire is to be able to recognize when you need affirmation of my love without you having to feel neglected or angry. So I’m giving you all these slips of paper and asking you to please drop one where I’ll see it whenever I’m falling down on the job of making you feel as special as you really are to me. Whenever I see a little pink slip of paper, I’ll be reminded of your need for me to express my love and commitment to you. Hopefully there are enough slips to get us through this lifetime, but if not, I’ll cut some more. Your loving husband, Greg

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Now Nello, whom Calandrino mistrusted, had as much diversion of the matter as the others and bore a hand with them in making sport of him: wherefore, of accord with Bruno, he betook himself to Florence to Calandrino's wife and said to her, 'Tessa, thou knowest what a beating Calandrino gave thee without cause the day he came back, laden with stones from the Mugnone; wherefore I mean to have thee avenge thyself on him; and if thou do it not, hold me no more for kinsman or for friend. He hath fallen in love with a woman over yonder, and she is lewd enough to go very often closeting herself with him. A little while agone, they appointed each other to foregather together this very day; wherefore I would have thee come thither and lie in wait for him and chastise him well.' When the lady heard this, it seemed to her no jesting matter, but, starting to her feet, she fell a-saying, 'Alack, common thief that thou art, is it thus that thou usest me? By Christ His Cross, it shall not pass thus, but I will pay thee therefor!' Then, taking her mantle and a little maid to bear her company, she started off at a good round pace for the mansion, together with Nello.

• From Real Life (2020)

  Wallace fit hmm , comme plongé dans ses pensées, le temps de laisser retomber la bouffée d’agacement et d’humiliation. Vincent arborait une expression patiente, dans l’expectative. Wallace remarqua de l’agitation à la table voisine : les footballeurs avaient commencé à se bousculer et, avec le blanc de leurs tee-shirts qui brillait dans le noir, on aurait dit une avalanche de rectangles lumineux qui s’effondraient les uns sur les autres, comme dans un tableau d’après-guerre. « Je travaillais, surtout. C’est tout, en fait. — On adore les martyrs, dit Vincent. Je suis sûr qu’on va en parler toute la soirée. Notre Dame du Labo perpétuel. — On ne parle pas tout le temps du labo », protesta Yngve, mais Wallace ne put que rire, même si c’était à ses propres dépens. C’était vrai : le labo était leur seul sujet de conversation. Quel que soit le sujet d’origine, la discussion ne manquait jamais de revenir là-dessus : je faisais une chromatographie, l’autre jour, et tu vas pas me croire, si, j’ai élué avant d’avoir fini pour dernier bain. Quelqu’un n’avait pas pensé à remplir les boîtes à pipettes, donc devine qui a passé quatre heures à l’autoclave ? C’est trop demander que les gens remettent ma pipette où ils l’ont trouvée ? À tous les coups, ils les prennent, et on les revoit jamais . Wallace pouvait comprendre l’agacement de Vincent. Celui-ci était allé s’installer en ville au cours de leur deuxième année pour être avec Cole et, la semaine où ils attendaient tous leurs notes d’examen, il avait fait une pendaison de crémaillère, pendant les fêtes. Au lieu de boire de la bière bon marché et d’admirer le canapé d’angle design en chrome et cuir, ils s’étaient entassés dans un coin pour discuter à voix basse de l’examen 610, avec sa question inattendue sur l’hélice à la fin, et le 508, qui comprenait une question sur le changement d’enthalpie libre dans différents états osmotiques, laquelle avait demandé à Wallace cinq feuilles de papier, et des calculs infinitésimaux qu’il n’avait pas pratiqués depuis sa licence. Vincent avait passé la soirée à décorer le sapin lui-même pendant qu’ils s’angoissaient et gémissaient sur leur sort, et Wallace avait eu de la peine pour lui. Mais c’était automatique, ce réflexe de se tourner vers le labo, car tant qu’ils parlaient de science, ils n’avaient pas à se coltiner d’autres questions. C’était comme si le troisième cycle avait effacé les individus qu’ils étaient avant. Pour Wallace, du moins, c’était tout l’intérêt. Et cependant, il avait commencé à éprouver, cet été tout spécialement, un sentiment qu’il n’avait jamais éprouvé auparavant : qu’il voulait autre chose. Il n’était pas heureux et, pour la première fois de sa vie, cette condition ne semblait pas entièrement nécessaire. Parfois, il avait envie de faire confiance à son impulsion, de sortir d’un bond de sa vie pour plonger dans le vide vaste, incalculable du monde. « Je travaille aussi, mais vous ne m’entendez pas en parler constamment.

• From Another Country (1962)

  “No, man, they love them, too. Like they never heard of Freud.” Harold laughed. “They’ll take you home and feed you, they’ll share anything they’ve got with you and they’ll be hurt if you don’t take it.” “Mothers, sisters, or brothers,” Harold said. “Take them away. Open up that window and let that foul air out.” Lorenzo ignored this, looking around the table and nodding gravely. “That’s the truth, men, they’re great people.” “What about Franco?” Belle asked. She seemed rather proud to know that Franco existed. “Oh, Franco’s an asshole, he doesn’t count.” “Bullshit he doesn’t count,” cried Harold, “you think all those uniforms that we help Franco pay for are walking around Spain just for kicks? You think they don’t have real bullets in those guns? Let me tell you, dad, those cats are for real, they shoot people!” “Well. That doesn’t have anything to do with the people,” said Lorenzo. “Yeah. But I bet you wouldn’t like to be a Spaniard,” Harold said. “I’m sick of all this jazz about the happy Spanish peasant,” Vivaldo said. He thought of Ida. He leaned over to Lorenzo. “I bet you you wouldn’t want to be a nigger here, would you?” “Oh!” laughed Lorenzo, “your chick sure has you brainwashed!” “Brainwashed, hell. You wouldn’t want to be colored here and you wouldn’t want to be Spanish there.” There was a curious tension in his chest and he took a large swallow of his whiskey. “The question is—what do we want to be?” “I want to be me,” said Belle, with an unexpected ferocity, and chewed at her thumbnail. “Well,” asked Vivaldo, and looked at her, “what’s stopping you?” She giggled and chewed; she looked down. “I don’t know. It’s hard to get straight.” She looked over at him as though afraid he might reach over and strike her. “You know what I mean?” “Yes,” he said, after a long moment and a long sigh, “I sure do know what you mean.”