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 Birthday Girl (2018)

  La piel de sus hombros desnudos, su cabello cayendo por su espalda, el balanceo de sus caderas mientras camina... Arranco mis ojos antes de ser atrapado. Se abre paso hacia detrás de la barra de nuevo e ignoro algunas de las sonrisas satisfechas de los hombres que están en la habitación mientras la siguen con la mirada y trato de no preguntarme qué es lo que sus silenciosos susurros se dicen entre sí. Veo una mano agitándose en la esquina de mi visión y muevo mi mirada rápidamente hacia Dutch sentado con los chicos en una butaca. Me acerco. —¿Qué diablos lleva puesto? —refunfuño, deslizándome dentro de la butaca. Dutch gira su cabeza hacia mí, con su bebida a escasos centímetros de sus labios. —Es el espectáculo de lencería —me dice—. Lo tienen todos los jueves por la noche. Las cantineras y las camareras se ponen camisones o corsés y sirven bebidas y comida. Es divertido. No, en realidad no. Pero miro a mi alrededor y veo a otras mujeres que llevan aperitivos y traen bebidas, algunas de ellas con atuendos muy delgados. Al menos el corsé de Jordan parece tan delgado como una armadura. —Pero Jordan nunca lo ha hecho antes —continúa—. Eso es lo que me sorprendió. Pensé que deberías saberlo. —¿Por qué diablos querría saberlo? —Saco una cerveza del cubo de hielo sobre la mesa. —Sí, lo siento. —Se da vuelta, murmurando en su vaso—. Parece que no te puede importar menos. Lo miro de reojo, escuchando la risa en sus palabras. Volviendo a poner la cerveza en el cubo, sin tocar, me levanto y me dirijo a la barra. Oigo un bufido detrás de mí, pero no me importa. Ella es como mi responsabilidad y no quiero que haga cosas como esta, porque piense que necesita dinero. Solo hay una cantinera además de Jordan. La dueña, Shel. Estoy seguro que no me ha olvidado, así que me dirijo hacia el extremo opuesto y capto la atención de Jordan mientras quita las tapas de una fila de seis botellas de cerveza. —¿Qué diablos llevas puesto? —Me inclino, hablando tan bajo como puedo. Mueve su cabeza hacia mí, encuentra mis ojos y rápidamente se aleja de nuevo como si fuera la última persona con la que quiere lidiar en este momento. ella. Entrega las cervezas, recoge el efectivo y se gira, tocando la pantalla frente a

• From Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity (1990)

  The task for women, Wittig argues, is to assume the position of the authoritative, speaking subject—which is in some sense their ontologically grounded “right”—and to overthrow both the category of sex and the system of compulsory heterosexuality that is its origin. Language, for Wittig, is a set of acts, repeated over time, that produce reality-effects that are eventually misperceived as “facts.” Collectively considered, the repeated practice of naming sexual difference has created this appearance of natural division. The “naming” of sex is an act of domination and compulsion, an institutionalized performative that both creates and legislates social reality by requiring the discursive/perceptual construction of bodies in accord with principles of sexual difference. Hence, Wittig concludes, “we are compelled in our bodies and our minds to correspond, feature by feature, with the idea of nature that has been established for us … ‘men’ and ‘women’ are political categories, and not natural facts.”28 “Sex,” the category, compels “sex,” the social configuration of bodies, through what Wittig calls a coerced contract. Hence, the category of “sex” is a name that enslaves. Language “casts sheaves of reality upon the social body,” but these sheaves are not easily discarded. She continues: “stamping it and violently shaping it.”29 Wittig argues that the “straight mind,” evident in the discourses of the human sciences, “oppress all of us, lesbians, women, and homosexual men” because they “take for granted that what founds society, any society, is heterosexuality.”30 Discourse becomes oppressive when it requires that the speaking subject, in order to speak, participate in the very terms of that oppression—that is, take for granted the speaking subject’s own impossibility or unintelligibility. This presumptive heterosexuality, she argues, functions within discourse to communicate a threat: “ ‘you-will-be-straight-or-you-will-not-be.’ ”31 Women, lesbians, and gay men, she argues, cannot assume the position of the speaking subject within the linguistic system of compulsory heterosexuality. To speak within the system is to be deprived of the possibility of speech; hence, to speak at all in that context is a performative contradiction, the linguistic assertion of a self that cannot “be” within the language that asserts it.

• From The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  “Then why would Mom paddle you?” “She had to punish someone, and she didn’t want to upset the other kids,” Lori said. ONCE MOM STARTED TEACHING, I thought maybe we’d be able to buy new clothes, eat cafeteria lunches, and even spring for nifty extras like the class pictures the school took every year. Mom and Dad had never been able to buy the class pictures for us, though a couple of times, Mom secretly snipped a snapshot out of the packet before returning it. Despite Mom’s salary, we didn’t buy the class pictures that year—or even steal them—but that was probably just as well. Mom had read somewhere that mayonnaise was good for your hair, and the morning the photographer was coming to school, she slathered a few spoonfuls on mine. She didn’t realize you were supposed to wash out the mayonnaise, and in the picture that year I was peering out from under one stiff shingle of hair. Still, things did improve. Even though Dad had been fired from the barite mine, we were able to continue living in the depot by paying rent to the mining company, since not a lot of other families were vying for the place. We now had food in the fridge, at least until it got toward the end of the month, when we usually ran out of money because neither Mom nor Dad ever mastered the art of budgeting. But Mom’s salary created a whole new set of problems. While Dad liked it that Mom was bringing home a paycheck, he saw himself as the head of the household, and he maintained that the money should be turned over to him. It was his responsibility, he’d say, to handle the family finances. And he needed money to fund his gold-leaching research. “The only research you’re doing is on the liver’s capacity to absorb alcohol,” Mom said. Still, she found it hard to straight-out defy Dad. For some reason, she didn’t have it in her to say no to him. If she tried, he’d argue and wheedle and sulk and bully and plain wear her down. So she resorted to evasive tactics. She’d tell Dad she hadn’t cashed her paycheck yet, or she’d pretend she’d left it at school and hide it until she could sneak off to the bank. Then she’d pretend she’d lost all the money. Pretty soon Dad took to showing up at school on payday, waiting outside in the car, and taking us all straight to Winnemucca, where the bank was located, so Mom could cash her paycheck immediately. Dad insisted on escorting Mom into the bank. Mom had us kids come along so she could try to slip some of the cash to us first. Back in the car, Dad would go through Mom’s purse and take the money out. On one trip, Mom went into the bank alone because Dad couldn’t find a place to park. When she came out, she was missing a sock.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Mi cuerpo se calienta, recordando eso. La vista de ella caminando desnuda a la cocina una noche, y como no la dejé tomar un bocadillo de media noche hasta que yo tuviera el mío. Estaba tan hermosa. Me enderezo, apretando los dientes. —¿Observaste? —No. —Suelta como si nunca se atreviera. Y luego se encoje de hombros—. Quiero decir, lo hubiera hecho si no hubieran terminado en el suelo eventualmente y fuera de mi línea de visión. Continua con una risa, y si pudiera volar, estaría sobre su cerca en este momento, estrangulándolo. Parece notar mi ira e intenta calmarme. —Escucha, no pretendía ver nada, ¿está bien? Sabes, podrías intentar permanecer alejado de las ventanas. —Mueve la cabeza—. Solo digo que creo que es la primera vez que te vi sonreír. Ciertamente parece que te hizo feliz. En realidad no podría creer que ella no fuera capaz de hacer feliz a cualquier otro hombre. —Cállate de una jodida vez —murmuro, inclinándome y recogiendo las herramientas, tirándolas en la pequeña caja. ¿De verdad? ¿Cómo pudimos ser tan descuidados? Él es la última persona cuyos ojos quiero sobre ella. —Entonces, ¿a dónde fue? —pregunta—. ¿No funcionó para ustedes? Lo ignoro, reuniendo mi mierda, para poder escapar adentro. —¿Cómo lo echaste a perder, hombre? —Se ríe, tomando un sorbo de su cerveza—. Si encuentras a una mujer así, joven y ardiente con un cuerpo en buena forma, no la pierdes. Lanzo la llave al suelo, moviéndome hacia adelante sin tener a dónde ir. —Voy a patear tu trasero. Cierra la maldita boca. —Entonces, está disponible ahora, ¿verdad? —Hijo de perra —gruño. Se ríe entre dientes. Debe ser tan divertido. —Definitivamente eres triste —dice—. Las mujeres no son tan difíciles de hacer feliz si te interesa un poco. —No soy incapaz —espeto—. Pero ese no es el punto. Las chicas adolescentes deben estar con chicos adolescentes, y no lo olvides de una jodida vez la próxima vez que te cruces con una. Ella merece a alguien de su propia edad.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  By the blood of Christ, give me a seven!’ And then he exclaims, ‘By the bones of Christ, I will stab you to the heart if you play false with me!’ This is the fruit of the cursed dice - curses, anger, perjury and murder. So for the love of Christ, who died for us, forsake all oaths. Now I will get on with my story. These three young scoundrels, whom I mentioned at the beginning, were sitting in a low tavern long before daybreak. They were drinking together when suddenly they heard the chink of the handbell that announces the carriage of a coffin to the grave. One of them turned to his servant. ‘Go outside,’ he said, ‘and find out whose corpse it is. Try to remember the name.’ ‘Sir,’ the boy replied, ‘that isn’t necessary. I knew about it two hours ago. It is the body of an old comrade of yours. He was murdered last night, very suddenly, as he sat blind drunk upon the bench outside the tavern. A thief called Death sneaked up on him. Death is killing everyone around here. He took up his spear, pierced the drunk through the heart, and silently went on his way. He has killed another thousand during the recent plague. I think, master, that you should be careful not to come too close to him. It is better to beware such an adversary. That’s what my mother taught me. Death is the constant enemy.’

• From Going Clear (2013)

  The Sixth Dynamic is the matter, energy, space, and time that compose the reality we live in. The Seventh Dynamic is the Spiritual, which must be obtained before expanding into the Eighth Dynamic, which is called Infinity or God. The Scientology mantra for judging ethical behavior is “the greatest good for the greatest number of dynamics”—a formula that can excuse quite a number of crimes. Every individual or group moves through stages, which Hubbard calls Ethics Conditions, that incline toward either survival or collapse. They range from the highest state, Power, to the lowest, Confusion. The way to determine what condition one is in at any given moment is through statistics, compiled each Thursday at two p.m. For a Scientology church, the relevant statistic might be how much money it is bringing in. The “org” that brings in less money week after week is in a condition of Non- Existence, which, plotted on a graph, is represented as a steeply plummeting line. A level or slightly declining line indicates a condition of Emergency. Slightly up is Normal; sharply up is Affluence. Every Scientology organization, and every member of its staff, henceforth would be judged by the implacable weekly statistics. Hubbard warned his charges, “You have to establish an ethics presence hard. Otherwise, you’re just gonna be wrapped around a telegraph pole.” The years at sea were critical ones for the future of Scientology. Even as Hubbard was inventing the doctrine, each of his decisions and actions would become enshrined in Scientology lore as something to be emulated—his cigarette smoking, for instance, which is still a feature of the church’s culture at the upper levels, as are his 1950s habits of speech, his casual misogyny, his aversion to perfume and scented deodorants, and his love of cars and motorcycles and Rolex watches. More significant is the legacy of his belittling behavior toward subordinates and his paranoia about the government. Such traits stamped the religion as an extremely secretive and sometimes hostile organization that saw enemies on every corner. Because Hubbard viewed the world that way, he awakened suspicion that there must be something very dangerous about Scientology. One by one, ports began turning away the fleet. It had begun with Gibraltar in 1967, when the ship was refused assistance during a heavy storm in the strait. England banned foreign Scientologists from entering the country for study in July 1968 and declared Hubbard an undesirable alien. Hubbard took out his frustration on his crew. He assigned Yvonne Gillham a condition of Non-Existence and reduced her to a “swamper,” which he defined as “one who cleans up.” Her hands became raw and gnarled. “She was like Cinderella,” a friend recalled, “always scrubbing.”

• From Mud Vein (2014)

  Or maybe I was just aggravated. I imagined her writing; Will not talk about father. Abuse? There was no abuse. Just nothingness. “Your book, then.” She reached under her notepad and pulled out a copy of my last novel, setting it on the table between us. I should have been surprised that she had a copy, but I wasn’t. When it was made into a movie, I didn’t think I would see it, but I did. Chances were they’d turn my book into some bastardized Hollywood knockoff. At least my book would get good publicity. They anticipated a small release, but on opening night the movie grossed three times the expected amount and then went on to top the box office for three weeks before it was knocked out by a tights-wearing superhero. My book became an overnight sensation. And I hated it. All of a sudden everyone was looking at me, looking into my life, asking questions about my art, which I had always deemed highly private. So, I bought a house with my money, changed my number and stopped answering my e-mails. For a while I was one of the most sought after interviews in the book world. Now I was a rape victim and I had cancer. I hated Isaac for making me do this. I hated him for making this the condition for performing my surgery. I’d taken to the internet, searching other surgeons who could cut out my cancer. They were plentiful. Cancer was trending. There were websites you could go to where you could see their pictures, where they went to medical school, how their former patients rated them. Five stars to Dr. Stetterson from Berkley! He took the time to know me as a person before dissecting me like a live specimen! Four stars to Dr. Maysfield. His bedside manner was stiff, but my cancer is gone. It was like a damn dating site. Scary. I’d quickly closed the window and resolved to see the shrink Isaac was forcing on me. The only peace I had at that point was knowing it was he who would cut the cancer from my body. Not any old stranger—the stranger who’d been sleeping on my couch and feeding me. “Let’s talk about your last relationship,” Saphira said. “Why? Why do we have to dissect my past? I hate it.” “To know who a person really is, I believe you have to know first who they were.” I hated where she put her words. A normal person would have said you first have to know who they were. Saphira mixed everything up. Threw me off. Used her dragged out ‘r’s’ as a weapon. She was a purring dragon. In my hesitation, her pen scratched on paper again. “His name was Nick.” I picked up my untouched coffee and spun the cup in my hands. “We were together for two years.

• From The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  I felt Stanley's hand creeping onto my thigh. I looked at him, but he was staring at the *Hee Haw* Honeys so intently that I couldn't be sure he was doing it on purpose, so I knocked his hand away without saying anything. A few minutes later, the hand came creeping back. I looked down and saw that Uncle Stanley's pants were unzipped and he was playing with himself. I felt like hitting him, but I was afraid I'd get in trouble the way Lori had after punching Erma, so I hurried out to Mom. "Mom, Uncle Stanley is behaving inappropriately," I said. … Mom cocked her head and looked concerned. "Poor Stanley," she said. "He's so lonely."

• From The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  in the car, Dad would go through Mom’s purse and take the money out. On one trip, Mom went into the bank alone because Dad couldn’t find a place to park. When she came out, she was missing a sock. “Jeannette, I’m going to give you a sock that I want you to put in a safe place,” Mom said once she got in the car. She winked hard at me as she reached inside her bra and pulled out her other sock, knotted in the middle and bulging at the toe. “Hide it where no one can get it, because you know how scarce socks can get in our house.” “Goddammit, Rose Mary,” Dad snapped. “Do you think I’m a fucking idiot?” “What?” Mom asked, throwing her arms up in the air. “Am I not allowed to give my daughter a sock?” She winked at me again, just in case I didn’t get it. Back in Battle Mountain, Dad insisted we go to the Owl Club to celebrate payday, and ordered steaks for all of us. They tasted so good we forgot we were eating a week’s worth of groceries. “Hey, Mountain Goat,” Dad said at the end of the dinner, while Mom was putting our table scraps in her purse. “Why don’t you let me borrow that sock for a second?” I looked around the table. No one met my eye except Dad, who was grinning like an alligator. I handed over the sock. Mom gave a dramatic sigh of defeat and let her head drop down on the table. To show who was in charge, Dad left the waitress a ten- dollar tip, but on the way out, Mom slipped it into her purse. • • • Soon we were out of money again. When Dad dropped Brian and me off at school, he noticed that we weren’t carrying lunch bags. “Where are your lunches?” Dad asked us. We looked at each other and shrugged. “There’s no food in the house,” Brian said. When Dad heard that, he acted outraged, as though he’d learned for the first time that his children were going hungry. “Dammit, that Rose Mary keeps spending money on art supplies!” he muttered, pretending to be talking to himself. Then he declared more loudly, “No child of mine has to go hungry!” After he dropped us off, he called after us, “Don’t you kids worry about a thing.” At lunch Brian and I sat together in the cafeteria. I was pretending to help him with his homework so that no one would ask us why we weren’t eating when Dad

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Jordan— está orientada hacia el patio trasero, y que posiblemente podría estar mirándola. Casualmente, camino hacia la mesa de jardín, enciendo mi cigarro y bajo el encendedor, fumando e inhalando hasta que el final se vuelve naranja. El dulce aroma llena mi nariz y exhalo el humo, inmediatamente siento un cosquilleo en mi cabeza. Me acerco a un lado de la piscina frente a ella y la miro, viendo que está vestida con unos pantalones cortos de dormir y una camisa negra sin sujetador. Los puntos duros de sus pezones son visibles desde aquí. manteniendo mi voz lo más baja posible. —Me ha visto en menos. Aprieto el cigarro y golpeo el extremo con mi dedo medio. —¿Y? —¿Y qué? Arqueo una ceja. —¿Te tocó? Escucho su aliento con una risa. —Tal vez. —Luego estrecha sus ojos en mí—. Y tal vez se lo permití. De tal palo tal astilla, después de todo. Me duele la mandíbula y sacude la cabeza, apartándose de mí. Sé que está enojada. Sé por qué está enojada. Y sé que todos hacemos cosas estúpidas cuando estamos enojados. Me está alejando, y solo necesito tiempo para pensar. Solo algo de tiempo. —No hagas esto —le digo. —Entonces no me hagas preguntas estúpidas. Su pecho se levanta y cae con respiraciones superficiales, y se ve miserable. No sé qué hacer. —Esto me está matando —le susurro, disparando mis ojos a su ventana para asegurarme que Lindsay no está mirando—. Jodidamente matando, saber que estás en su cama. —Entonces debiste haberles dicho la verdad —responde—. Que podían usar mi habitación todo lo que quisiera, porque ahora duermo en tu cama. Tenso mi mandíbula. —¿Vas a dormir en eso? —murmuro, apenas moviendo mis labios y

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  The Miller’s Prologue Heere folwen the wordes bitwene the Hoost and the Millere When the Knight had finished his story everyone in our company, young and old, rich and poor, agreed that it was a noble story to be kept ever green in the memory. Our Host, Harry Bailey, laughed and joked with us. ‘By my faith,’ he said, ‘the gate has been opened. We can see the path ahead of us. Now who is going to tell the next story? The game has been well begun. Who will continue it? How about you, sir Monk? Do you have anything to compare with the Knight’s tale?’ The Miller was coming up behind, half on and half off his horse. He was so drunk that he could scarcely keep his saddle. They say of a drunken man that he has seen the devil. The Miller was pale enough. He did not have the courtesy to doff his hood or his hat, or wait for anyone else to speak. In a voice as loud as that of Pilate on the pageant stage, he cried out to our Host. ‘By the blood and bones of Christ, Harry,’ he shouted, ‘I have a noble story to tell. It will beat the Knight by a mile.’ Then he burped. Harry could see that he was drunk, and tried to calm him down. ‘Wait a little, Robin,’ he said. ‘Let someone else tell the next story, dear friend, and you can tell yours later. We have to arrange these things properly.’ ‘By God’s soul I will not. I will speak now. Or I will go my own way without you all.’ ‘In the devil’s name speak then,’ Harry replied. ‘You are a fool. You left your wits in a dish of ale.’ ‘Listen to me, all of you,’ the Miller said. ‘I admit that I am drunk. There is no point in denying it. So if I swear, or get my words mixed up, blame it on good Southwark beer. But this is it. This is the point. I want to tell you the story of a carpenter and his wife, and how a young scholar got the better of the carpenter. If you know what I mean.’ The Reeve then angrily interrupted him. ‘That’s enough. Stop spouting all this lewd nonsense. Slurring your words. It is sinful and foolish to injure the reputation of any man, and to bring wives into disrepute. Why damage the good folk? There are plenty of other things to talk about.’ The drunken Miller answered him at once. ‘Oswald, dear brother,’ he said. ‘You know the old saying. He who has no wife cannot be a cuckold. I am not saying you are one of them. I don’t know. In any case there are plenty of good wives. I would say, if you were asking, that there were a thousand good to one bad. You should know as much yourself. Unless you’re completely mad. So why are you so angry with my story? I have a wife, just the same as you. I swear on all I hold sacred that she has been faithful to me. I swear - let me think, I swear on my oxen - that I am not a cuckold. At least I hope I am not. No husband should want to know the secrets of God or the secrets of his wife. As long as he can graze on God’s plenty, in the shape of a female body, he should not bother about anything else.’ It was clear that the Miller was not about to restrain himself, but was going to tell his vulgar story in his own very vulgar way. I am only sorry that I have to repeat it here. And therefore, dear readers, forgive anything you find in the next few pages. My intentions are not bad. I am obliged to repeat everything I have heard, for good or ill. Otherwise I will have failed. I will have been unfaithful to my material. If you do not want to read the Miller’s tale, then pass on to one of the others. I am not forcing you. There are plenty of other stories here. There are history tales, and tales of piety, and moral tales galore. Don’t blame me if you choose the wrong one. The Miller is a vulgarian. You know that. The Reeve is a bit of a lout, too, along with others I could mention. They both told dirty stories. So reflect. Do not lay the blame on me. In any case, why take this game too seriously?

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  You encouraged your wife and your concubines to do the same. You are worse than a blasphemer. You also worship false gods. You will soon feel the force of the true God’s wrath. ‘You ask about the hand that wrote those three words upon the wall? It was sent by God. Trust me. Your reign is over. You are now less than nothing. Your kingdom shall be divided, given over to the Medes and the Persians.’ On that same night Belshazzar was assassinated. Darius ascended the throne, although he had no right or claim to it. So, fellow pilgrims, learn the moral of this story. Authority on earth is brittle. Power and wealth are transient. When Dame Fortune goes against you, you lose everything. You lose your friends, too. A friend made when Fortune smiles becomes an enemy when Fortune frowns. You know the proverb well enough. Cenobia Cenobia, queen of Palmyra in Syria, was renowned throughout the world for her nobility no less than for her skill in arms. No one could match her. She was of royal blood, descended from the kings of Persia. I will not say that she was the most beautiful woman in the world. I will only say that, in appearance, she had no defects at all. From her childhood she disdained feminine pursuits. She did not want to stitch or sew. She ran off into the woods and joined the hunt for wild beasts; she liked nothing better than to let the arrows fly. She was faster than the creatures she pursued, and never tired. When she was older she killed lions and leopards. She ripped a bear apart with her ‘bear’ hands.

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  I put my hand to the garland of wilting flowers at my throat, and tore it from me. Then I did the same with the sable wig, and flung it to the floor. My hair was oiled flat to my head, my cheeks were flushed with wine and anger — I must have looked terrible. But I didn’t feel terrible: I felt filled with power and with light. I said, ‘You shall not talk to me in such a way. How dare you talk to me like that!’ Beside Diana, Dickie rolled her eyes. ‘Really Diana,’ she said, ‘what a bore this is!’ ‘What a bore!’ I turned to her. ‘Look at you, you old cow, dressed up in a satin shirt like a boy of seventeen. Dorian Gray? You look more like the bleedin’ portrait, after Dorian has made a few trips down the docks!’ Dickie twitched, then grew pale. Several of the ladies laughed, and one of them was Maria. ‘My dear boy - !’ she began. ‘Don’t “dear boy” me, you ugly bitch!’ I said to her then. ‘You’re as bad as her, in your Turkish trousers. What are you, looking for your harem? No wonder they are off fucking each other with their enormous parts, if they have you as their master. You have had your fingers all over me, for a year and a half; but if a real girl was ever to uncover her tit and put it in your hand, you would have to ring for your maid, for her to show you what to do with it!’ ‘That’s enough!’ This was Diana. She was gazing at me, white-faced and furious, but still terribly calm. Now she turned and addressed the group of goggling ladies. She said: ‘Nancy thinks it amusing, sometimes, to kick her little heels; and sometimes, of course, it is. But not tonight. Tonight, I’m afraid, it is only tiresome.’ She looked at me again, but spoke, still, as if to her guests. ‘She will go upstairs,’ she said levelly, ‘until she is sorry. Then she will apologise to the ladies she has upset. And then, I shall think of some little punishment for her.’ Her gaze flicked over the remains of my costume. ‘Something suitably Roman, perhaps.’ ‘Roman?’ I answered. ‘Well, you should know about that. How old are you today? You were there, weren’t you, at Hadrian’s palace?’ It was a mild enough insult, after all that I had said. But as I said it, there came a titter from the crowd. It was only a small one; but if there was ever anyone who could not bear to be tittered at, that person was Diana.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  When she heard this, Cecilia began to laugh. ‘Oh, sir, you are a simpleton. Do you think that I would renounce my innocence in order to become a sinner? Do you not see that you are making a fool of yourself? You stamp and stare. You rage at me as if you had lost your mind.’ ‘Foolish woman! You do not know the extent of my power. The rulers of this land have given me the power of life and death, over you and everyone else. How dare you speak to me like that? You are puffed up with pride!’ ‘I speak nothing but the truth. I am not proud. We have been taught as Christians to hate the sin of pride. And if you want to hear another truth, then I will tell you this. You have lied. You have said that our rulers have granted you the power of life and death. You can take away only the mortal life. You have no other jurisdiction. So you can be the minister of death. But that is all.’ ‘Enough of your impudence,’ he said. ‘Make sacrifice to Jupiter. Then be on your way. I do not care what you say about me. I can endure that like a philosopher. But there is one thing I will not permit. I cannot allow you to speak ill of our native gods.’ ‘Oh foolish man,’ she replied. ‘You have said nothing to me that has not been vain and ill-considered. You are an incompetent officer and a presumptuous judge. You might as well be blind, for all the good your eyes are. Can’t you tell that this idol is made of stone? You have announced that a piece of granite is a god. Put your hand on it. If you cannot see it, taste it. Can’t you tell? It is made of stone. It is a shame that all the people will be laughing at you for your foolishness. It is known that the Lord God is in the heavens. Anyone can tell that these stone images are of no use or value. Do you not see that they have no purpose? They are cold. They are lifeless.’ Her words enraged Almachius. He ordered his officers to take her back to her house, and there burn her to death. ‘Bathe her in flame,’ he said. ‘Clean her.’ They followed his orders literally. They placed her in a bath, pinioned her, and then lit great fires beneath her that were fed with logs night and day. All that night, and for most of the next day, she felt no pain; she remained quite cool, and did not burn. There was not a drop of sweat upon her forehead. Yet she was still destined to die in that bath. Almachius, frustrated of his purpose, sent one of his servants to slay her as she lay there.

• From The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  WE FOUGHT A LOT in Welch. Not just to fend off our enemies but to fit in. Maybe it was because there was so little to do in Welch; maybe it was because life there was hard and it made people hard; maybe it was because of all the bloody battles over unionizing the mines; maybe it was because mining was dangerous and cramped and dirty work and it put all the miners in bad moods and they came home and took it out on their wives, who took it out on their kids, who took it out on other kids. Whatever the reason, it seemed that just about everyone in Welch—men, women, boys, girls—liked to fight. There were street brawls, bar stabbings, parking-lot beatings, wife slappings, and toddler whalings. Sometimes it was simply a matter of someone throwing a stray punch, and it would all be over before you knew it had started. Other times it would be more like a twelve-round prizefight, with spectators cheering on the bloody, sweating opponents. Then there were the grudges and feuds that went on for years, a couple of brothers beating up some guy because back in the fifties his father had beaten up their father, a woman shooting her best friend for sleeping with her husband and the best friend’s brother then stabbing the husband. You’d walk down McDowell Street, and half the people you passed seemed to be nursing an injury sustained in local combat. There were shiners, split lips, swollen cheekbones, bruised arms, scraped knuckles, and bitten earlobes. We had lived in some pretty scrappy places back in the desert, but Mom said Welch was the fightingest town she’d ever seen. Brian and Lori and Maureen and I got into more fights than most kids. Dinitia Hewitt and her friends were only the first in a whole line of little gangs who did battle with one or more of us. Other kids wanted to fight us because we had red hair, because Dad was a drunk, because we wore rags and didn’t take as many baths as we should have, because we lived in a falling-down house that was partly painted yellow and had a pit filled with garbage, because they’d go by our dark house at night and see that we couldn’t even afford electricity. But we always fought back, usually as a team. Our most spectacular fight, and our most audacious tactical victory—the Battle of Little Hobart Street—took place

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Una unidad de aire acondicionado sobresale por la ventana de enfrente, una cerca de madera desvencijada y vieja rodea la base, hay partes caídas y rotas sobre el césped o simplemente hay secciones faltantes y el porche está lleno de porquerías al azar, ropa y un par de bolsas llenas de basura. Tres jóvenes están de pie en el porche, fumando y hablando. —¿Aquí? —Me volteo y le pregunto. Pero solo se desabrocha el cinturón de seguridad, preparándose para bajarse. —¿Quiénes son esos tipos? —digo. Levanta la mirada solo por un momento antes de apartar sus ojos de nuevo, tomando su bolso. —Probablemente sean mi hermanastro y un par de sus amigos. Me detengo frente al tráiler, dado que la pequeña entrada para auto está ocupada y apago el motor. —¿Tienes un hermanastro? —No lo ha mencionado. Solo se encoge de hombros. —En el sentido técnico —dice, esbozando una sonrisa—. No hablo mucho con él. —Pero vive aquí —digo intentado conseguir algo de claridad. Asiente y antes que pueda decir algo más, se baja de la camioneta, llevando su bolso con ella. Bueno, ¿cuántas habitaciones puede tener este lugar, si hay otro chico viviendo aquí? ¿Siquiera tiene una cama? Saca una maleta de la parte trasera, pasa su bolso por encima de su cabeza, y guía el camino. Tomo una caja y la sigo, apretando mis dientes para mantener mi jodida boca bajo control. No sé si estoy furioso o preocupado o qué, y no sé si tengo derecho de sentir esas cosas o si cualquier preocupación está justificada. Probablemente estará bien. Esta es su familia. Yo solo... Siento como si fuera a explotar en cualquier segundo. Subimos los pocos escalones hacia la puerta principal y Jordan apenas si mira a su hermanastro y sus amigos mientras abre la puerta. —Ryan, este es el papá de Cole —murmura—. Pike, este es mi hermanastro, Ryan. Me giro hacia el chico y se endereza, tendiéndome su mano. —Qué tal, hombre. Muevo la caja en mis brazos y logro estrechar su mano. —Hola. Es bajo y fornido para ser un chico, de la estatura de Jordan, pero intenta compensarlo con un tatuaje en el cuello y una chaqueta de cuero negra. En verano. —Así qué, ¿ahora estás en casa? —le dice, tomando un trago de su cerveza. —Sí. Uno de los amigos de Ryan le da un codazo. —¿Ella es la que es desnudista? Aprieto mis dedos alrededor de la caja. Resopla, casi escupiendo su cerveza. —No, hombre. Esa es la otra. —Pero entonces sus ojos van hacia Jordan, moviéndose de arriba abajo con una sonrisita—. Aunque, esta también puede bailar un poco. Todos se ríen y siento un bulto subiendo por mi garganta como un gruñido. Tranquilizándome, me volteo y abro la puerta para Jordan, obligándola a entrar. Debo ser más indulgente. No es como si yo no fuera el ocasional idiota de tiempo en tiempo mientras crecía. ¿Cómo demonios sabe cómo baila?

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  ¿De dónde sacó esa lencería? Es de color crema y delgadas cintas de encaje sobre los hombros, y malditamente casi transparente. Sus pezones oscuros son visibles desde aquí, al igual que las curvas de sus pechos, ya que la tela húmeda se adhiere a su cuerpo. Y mis ojos queman mientras giran por la sala hacia cada hombre que la mira y la llama. Debería estar usando eso en mi maldita cama. No en un maldito escenario. Aprieto mis puños. Parece salir de su conmoción, porque de repente abraza su cuerpo y sale disparada del escenario, dejando atrás su sudadera. Baja los escalones y corre a lo largo de la pared, hacia el pasillo donde están los baños. Algunas chicas en una mesa la agarran llamándola por su nombre, sigue avanzando, les devuelve la sonrisa y se sonroja ante sus amigas. O los amigos de su hermana. De repente, alza sus ojos y sostiene mi mirada, deteniéndose. Las chicas de la mesa la ven detenerse y siguen su mirada, observando entre ambos. Las pendientes en su estómago a ambos lados de su ombligo brillan, cubiertas en gotas de agua, y la vista de su piel hace que mi polla se llene de sangre. Usó eso. Deliberadamente se lo puso, lo que significa que estaba considerando ir allí. Levanto la vista de su cuerpo y la miro, dando un paso adelante. Mía. Retrocede un paso. Me muevo de nuevo Y ella también. —Fue un accidente —dice, frunciendo el ceño—. Ella solo estaba jugando. No necesito ninguna mierda sobre algo que no fue mi cul… Corro hacia ella y le rodeo la cintura con un brazo, tomando su rostro con mi mano y tirando de su boca hacia la mía. Gime, sorprendida, y no me importa quién nos vea en este momento. Sin romper el beso, la llevo hacia atrás, hacia el pasillo y doblando la esquina. Aparta su boca. —¿Qué estás haciendo? Pero, Dios, estoy tan hambriento. Me tiro de nuevo por sus labios, saboreando su lengua y pasando mi mano por su suave cabello. —No. —Se aleja de mí. Dejo caer mis brazos, mi corazón palpita y mis dedos aún zumban con la sensación de su piel. —No voy a pelear contigo —le digo, respirando con dificultad—, y no voy a pedirte que vengas a casa. Solo quiero decir que lo siento. Levanta la barbilla, fingiendo ignorancia. —¿Acerca de? —La pizza, la película... —Olvidarme —agrega. Me acerco, tratando de mantener la calma y mantener mis manos alejadas de ella. —No te olvidé. No puedo... olvidarme de ti. Se queda en silencio, sosteniendo mi mirada, y no estoy seguro de lo que está pasando en su cabeza, pero solo necesitaba decirle eso a la cara. No quiero que actúe porque cree que estaba siendo descuidado con ella. Sin decir una palabra, se gira y se dirige al pasillo, empujando la salida. —¿Adónde vas? —La sigo.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  —La negra es la última —explica Pike, su voz es más profunda y juguetona de lo habitual—. Si la pones en la tronera, pierdes el juego. —¿Qué obtengo si gano? —¿Qué deseas? Ella ríe suavemente, y escucho el ruido de pies arrastrándose. No puedo verlos ya que están a la vuelta de la esquina en la mesa de billar, pero ella está haciendo algo, y aprieto el pomo de la puerta con frustración. Y luego escucho su voz baja. —Creo que eso es si yo gano —responde él a lo que sea que esté haciendo ella, y puedo escuchar la sonrisa en su voz. —Mmm hmmm. —Gime ella, y pongo los ojos en blanco, no estoy segura si le está haciendo algo a él, o él a ella. ¿Qué demonios? ¿Es en serio? ¿Cuánto tiempo han estado aquí? Él sabía que yo podría llegar a casa en cualquier momento. Soy una niña, ¡por Dios! ¿Cómo se supone que terminaré los deberes de la universidad y dormiré si ellos van a hacerlo toda la noche? Estoy segura que esto es lo que él estaba planeando. Si querían jugar billar, pudieron haber ido a The Cue. La trajo aquí por sexo. Doy marcha atrás a través de la cocina y dentro del cuarto de lavandería, abriendo deprisa la puerta de la lavadora, y vaciando la cerveza de raíz en el contenedor con vaso de papel y todo. Cierro de un golpe la tapa de nuevo, enciendo la máquina y entonces abro la puerta de la secadora, sacando toda su mierda y cerrándola de un golpe también. Sí quería tratarme como una niña, entonces aquí vamos. Subo corriendo las escaleras y entro en mi habitación, enciendo mi radio casetera y pongo Bad Medicine altísimo, mientras me quito la ropa del día y me pongo un pantalón de pijama y una camiseta corta. Tomando la agarradera de la casetera, bajo las escaleras hasta la mesa de la cocina y me siento frente al último modelo de paisaje en el que estoy trabajando para la universidad, con la música todavía resonando a mi lado. Son casi diez segundos antes de escuchar las pesadas pisadas de Pike en las escaleras del sótano, y tenso mi mandíbula, preparándome. Entra a la cocina y viene directamente hacia la mesa, presionando el botón Stop/Eject de mi reproductor. La casa queda inmediatamente en silencio, y alzo mi cabeza de golpe fingiendo una mirada inocente en mi rostro. —Oh, lo siento —digo—. Pensé que no había nadie. Pike se endereza pinchándome con una mirada que dice que soy una terrible mentirosa. —Hola, Jordan. —April entra a la cocina detrás de él—. ¿Cómo estás? Le doy una tensa sonrisa. —Bien. —Y regreso mi atención a mi modelo, ensuciándome con algo de falso lodo. Pike aún está mirándome fijamente, hay un largo e incómodo silencio mientras April, probablemente, intenta descubrir qué está sucediendo. —Me… marcharé —dice finalmente.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Toda la posesividad, la necesidad de vigilarme y protegerme solo fue para tenerme aquí, así podría meterse en mis bragas. Se resistió porque se sentía mal, pero simplemente estaba ganando tiempo para convencerse. Llevarme a la cama siempre fue el plan. Ahora que ha tenido su pedazo de trasero se quitó el problema de encima, y caray, puede que April también esté en Red’s esta noche, y pueden retomarlo donde lo dejaron. Gruño, pateando una silla. Eso no me sucede a mí. Ya no más. Se termina ahora. Tomo el teléfono y llamo a Cam, recordando qué noche es. —Hola, ¿qué sucede? —responde. Curvo los labios, sintiéndome repentinamente audaz. —Siento que quiero ver mi primer concurso de camisetas mojadas. Jadea, luego chilla en el teléfono. —¡Sí! Me detengo en el camino de entrada un poco después de las nueve y miro la casa. Todavía no estará dormida, y no estoy en mejores condiciones de lidiar con ella que hace cuatro horas, cuando el trabajo terminó. Pero no puedo seguir posponiéndolo. Necesitamos hablar. Veo una pequeña luz encendida en la cocina y sé que probablemente es la que está sobre la estufa, pero el resto de la casa está a oscuras, y una parte de mí espera que realmente esté en la cama, porque no quiero hacer esto. Salto de mi camioneta, cierro la puerta y camino hacia la casa. Deslizando la llave en el cerrojo, la giro y abro, entrando en la sala oscura. No hay luz entrando desde ningún lado, y no escucho su música. Sé que plantarla no pasó desapercibido. Llamó hace un par de horas pero no dejó un mensaje. Indudablemente está enojada. Inhalo y al instante huelo el queso caliente y la carne picante. Pizza. Al entrar en la cocina, abro el horno y encuentro la caja grande de Joe's y la saco, colocándola sobre la estufa. Levanto la tapa. Cada pieza aún se encuentra en la caja, intacta. Mi estómago se retuerce, y me siento como una mierda. Por supuesto, sabía que tendría algo para cenar. De regreso a la sala de estar, tomo el control remoto y enciendo el televisor, viendo como el cristal oscuro cobra vida y la portada de The Lost Boys (1987) aparece en la pantalla de Netflix. Tenía todo listo para una noche en casa. Subiendo las escaleras, me detengo en la puerta de su habitación, sin ver una luz desde dentro que fluya por debajo. Llamo dos veces y espero. Cuando no hay respuesta, giro la manija y abro la puerta. A través de la luz de la luna entrando por su ventana, veo su cama aún hecha y una habitación vacía. Mi pulso se acelera. Todavía no tiene un auto que funcione. ¿A dónde fue? ¿Tenía que trabajar después de todo? Reviso mi teléfono de nuevo en busca de mensajes de texto, pero no veo nada. Tal vez su hermana le dio un aventón. Pero me habría dicho si tenía que trabajar.

• From Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity (1990)

  Wittig argues that the linguistic discrimination of “sex” secures the political and cultural operation of compulsory heterosexuality. This relation of heterosexuality, she argues, is neither reciprocal nor binary in the usual sense; “sex” is always already female, and there is only one sex, the feminine. To be male is not to be “sexed”; to be “sexed” is always a way of becoming particular and relative, and males within this system participate in the form of the universal person. For Wittig, then, the “female sex” does not imply some other sex, as in a “male sex”; the “female sex” implies only itself, enmeshed, as it were, in sex, trapped in what Beauvoir called the circle of immanence. Because “sex” is a political and cultural interpretation of the body, there is no sex/gender distinction along conventional lines; gender is built into sex, and sex proves to have been gender from the start. Wittig argues that within this set of compulsory social relations, women become ontologically suffused with sex; they are their sex, and, conversely, sex is necessarily feminine. Wittig understands “sex” to be discursively produced and circulated by a system of significations oppressive to women, gays, and lesbians. She refuses to take part in this signifying system or to believe in the viability of taking up a reformist or subversive position within the system; to invoke a part of it is to invoke and confirm the entirety of it. As a result, the political task she formulates is to overthrow the entire discourse on sex, indeed, to overthrow the very grammar that institutes “gender”—or “fictive sex”—as an essential attribute of humans and objects alike (especially pronounced in French).25 Through her theory and fiction she calls for a radical reorganization of the description of bodies and sexualities without recourse to sex and, consequently, without recourse to the pronomial differentiations that regulate and distribute rights of speech within the matrix of gender. Wittig understands discursive categories like “sex” as abstractions forcibly imposed upon the social field, ones that produce a second-order or reified “reality.” Although it appears that individuals have a “direct perception” of sex, taken as an objective datum of experience, Wittig argues that such an object has been violently shaped into such a datum and that the history and mechanism of that violent shaping no longer appears with that object.26 Hence, “sex” is the reality-effect of a violent process that is concealed by that very effect. All that appears is “sex,” and so “sex” is perceived to be the totality of what is, uncaused, but only because the cause is nowhere to be seen. Wittig realizes that her position is counterintuitive, but the political cultivation of intuition is precisely what she wants to elucidate, expose, and challenge: