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 64 of 447 · 20 per page

• From Summer Sisters (1998)

  Which one would it be?” “I don’t know.” “Let’s say your life depended on it. You have to choose or you’ll die.” “Which one would you choose?” Caitlin said. “I asked you first.” “Okay,” Caitlin said. “I guess I’d take Von.” Good, Vix thought. Because she had already chosen Bru for herself. A week later they buried Cassandra and Vixen. They built sand sculptures of themselves on the beach, complete with breasts. Vix made hers round, Caitlin made hers pointy, and they both gave themselves purple stone nipples. They used black stones for their eyes, chunks of seaweed for their hair, tiny white shells for their fingernails and toenails, and wispy strands of beach grass for pubic hair. They smoothed out the sand all around their bodies and wrote, Here lie Vixen and Cassandra. They had a good life while it lasted . Then they chanted and danced around their former selves. Two women with a springer spaniel stopped for a minute, admiring their work. Caitlin and Vix continued to dance, ignoring them. It wasn’t that they didn’t have The Power anymore, it was that they couldn’t use it together. They didn’t know why. Something about it just didn’t feel right. They agreed that for now they could use The Power by themselves, but Vixen and Cassandra were dead. Dead and buried. 8VIX WOULDN’T have thought twice about Lamb’s boyhood if Caitlin hadn’t said, “Lamb was raised by his grandmother. She’s coming soon. I forget when. She’s a real bitch. But you’ll see that for yourself.” Her interest was piqued even more when Caitlin fished an old eight by ten photo out of her bottom dresser drawer. “Lamb’s parents,” Caitlin said, tapping the photo. “Amanda and Lambert. Killed in a car crash on the island when Lamb and his sister were just babies. You know how old they were when they died? Twenty-five. Is that pathetic or what?” She didn’t wait for Vix to respond. “They were both drunk on the night of the accident. That’s why Lamb never touches the stuff. She was driving. I look like her, don’t you think?” Vix covered the thirties hairstyle with her fingers. She did look like Caitlin. “They wouldn’t have been very good parents anyway,” Caitlin said, slipping the photo back into a glassine envelope. “They might have stopped drinking,” Vix said. “I doubt it.” “Some people do.” “Well, it doesn’t matter, does it? Because they’re dead!” “Why are you getting angry at me?” “Who’s angry? Did I say I was angry?” “No … but you’re acting like you are.” “You take everything personally, don’t you?” “Just some things!” Vix told her. Now she was getting angry. And over what? She took a couple of deep breaths and said, “Lamb turned out okay.” “Lamb was perfect … until he married her!” Vix wondered if Caitlin was ever going to get over Abby. Grandmother Somers looked elegant in her white linen pants suit and wide-brimmed straw hat.

• From Mud Vein (2014)

  I shove open the lid to the chest and see the book lying at the bottom. There is a single puzzle piece resting on its cover. I dust it away. This was the only book I saved when we burned everything to keep warm. It makes no sense why I’d save it. I had Isaac to answer my medical questions. Isaac to stitch me up. I saved it for myself. Because on some level I knew the zookeeper put it here for me. My stomach clenches. I flip through the index. Page 546. Fever. The part I am looking for is highlighted. In pink. It’s a coincidence, I think. An old textbook bought at a yard sale or something. This person couldn’t possibly have known that Isaac would spike a fever that could kill him. Could he? I suddenly get chills. I look up, and when I do, I’m eye-to- eye with the black horse. I drop the book. This is a game. This move is mine. I go to the wood closet. There is no more shed; Isaac started storing the tools in the Chapter Nine wood closet. I pull the axe from where it is propped, ignoring the glossy pages that run up and down the inner walls. I touch the tip of my finger to the blade. Isaac kept it sharpened. Just in case. Just in case Senna loses her mind and needs it, I think. I make my way up the stairs and turn right into the carousel room. The book is facedown on the carpet where I dropped it. An ungraceful splat on the floor. I kick it aside and look at my horse. Right in the eye. This horse and I bonded once upon a time over an arrow through the heart. I feel as if it betrayed me. Made me love it with its bone saddle and death tokens and morbid obesity—morbesity. Fattened me up for the fall. “Give me what he needs,” I say. “I’ll do whatever you want. Just give me what he needs.” And then, “Checkmate.” I lift the axe and don’t stop lifting the axe until my arms are jello-fied and my teeth are clanging together hard enough to deliver a headache, and the horse is just a mess of jagged, ripped metal. It reminds me of the inside of a Coke can I once cut open with a knife. Now he can’t see us anymore. Why did it take me so long to figure that out?

• From Between Us

  Where many Western caregivers may assume that anger is an unavoidable concomitant of the child’s maturation as a person with their own needs and goals, or a necessary response to injustice, caregivers in many other cultures consider anger childish; they believe that it is their role to help children outgrow and conquer their anger. Utku caregivers indulge the emotionality of little children who have “no ihuma: no mind, thought, reason, or understanding.” Anthropologist Jean Briggs describes how Saarak, who was the youngest of her host family and three years old around the time Briggs arrived at her field location, “screamed in anger and frustration.” Saarak’s family indulged her, trying to meet all her needs, and soothing her when they could not. It was common knowledge that small children are easily angered and frightened, and cry a lot. It was also shared wisdom that there is no point in teaching children ihuma before they show signs of possessing it, which was thought to happen around the age of five or six. Saarak’s older sister Raigili, who was six when Briggs arrived, was treated very differently: she was expected to have ihuma. Raigili acted as one who has ihuma most of the time: her behavior was pleasant and inconspicuous, and she tried not to give offense or inconvenience anyone. Maturity meant to contribute to the equanimity of the group, which meant to ban anger. Of course, older children’s control was still imperfect. Raigili did express anger or frustration sometimes, though her “hostility took the form not of attack but of sullenness: a passive, but total resistance to social overtures.” These feelings were never considered justified by the surrounding adults, and her parents ignored the behavior. Adults assumed that the child would end up finding reason, and seeing their errors, even if they did not at the moment. Adults’ disapproval of children’s actions, although clear to see, did not lead to sanctions. If a child chose to pay no attention to the disapproval, sometimes expressed in the form of fake threats, the subject was dropped, no penalties inflicted. Utku parents modeled the calm and rational response that they valued. They expected that over time their children would become calm as well. Like the Japanese mothers before, Utku caregivers socialized their children to “never (be) in anger,” first by modeling an understanding equanimity, and later by disapproving of any anger expressed by their children. It may be harder to believe that parents in U.S. and European cultural contexts socialize their children to be angry than it is that they socialize them for pride, happiness, and self-esteem, hence the idea that anger is unavoidable; however, research seems to suggest many American and European parents do. Anger embodies the self-reliance and assertiveness that is valued in these cultures, and many parents model, allow, and explicitly teach their children anger, even if they do not like to be at the receiving end. Emotions Are OURS, Not Just MINE

• From Going Clear (2013)

  The victory over the IRS was total, he explained. It gave Scientology financial advantages that were unusual, perhaps unique, among religions in the United States. For instance, schools using Hubbard educational methods received tax exemption. Eighty percent of individual auditing on the part of members was now a tax-deductible expense. Two Scientology publishing houses that were solely dedicated to turning out Hubbard’s books, including his commercial fiction, also gained the tax exemption. The church even gained the power to extend its tax exemption to any of its future branches—“They will no longer need to apply to the IRS,” Miscavige marveled. From now on, the church could make its own decisions about which of its activities were exempt. “And what about all those battles and wars still being fought overseas?” Miscavige continued. “Well, there’s good news on that front, too.” In the past, he observed, foreign governments would say, “You are an American religion. If the IRS doesn’t recognize you, why should we?” As a part of the settlement, Miscavige revealed, the agency agreed to send notices to every country in the world, explaining what Scientology was. “It is very complete and very accurate,” Miscavige said of the government brochure. “How do I know? We wrote it!” Miscavige summed up the mood in the Sports Arena: “The future is ours.” A MONTH AFTER the church’s historic triumph over the IRS in 1993, Rathbun blew. He had come to see Miscavige in a different light during the two years they labored over the tax case. The last six months of the tax case had been particularly arduous. During that period, he slept only about four hours a night. The former athlete was a physical wreck. “I’m only doing this for LRH,” he told himself, as he and Miscavige ate dinners together night after night in Washington and trudged back to the Four Seasons in Georgetown. “I’m not going to be this guy’s bitch for the rest of my life.” No doubt the stress affected Miscavige as well. On the night of his big victory speech in the Sports Arena, Miscavige showed up for a run- through, but the stage manager, Stefan Castle, was still fiddling with the cues for a complicated laser and pyrotechnic display. According to Castle, Miscavige stormed out into the arena and began to strangle him. Miscavige let him go before any real harm was done, but it was an alarming signal. Amy Scobee, head of the Celebrity Centre at the time, also noted that Miscavige’s personality began to shift immediately after the IRS decision, becoming more aggressive and hostile. At the party at the Celebrity Centre following his speech, Miscavige rudely shoved her aside as he entered. “You just want to get rid of me,” she remembers him saying.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Al menos a dos chicas les falta la parte superior de sus bikinis, una de ellas es tocada por un tipo que solo puedo suponer es uno de los amigos de Cole mientras se besan en la piscina. La otra chica está acostada en una silla de jardín, con un brazo metido detrás de la cabeza y las gafas de sol puestas a pesar del hecho que está oscuro. Me doy vuelta, buscando en mis pantalones por mi teléfono. Necesita sacar a esas pequeñas mierdas de mi propiedad, pero no puedo salir. No estoy seguro si sería incómodo para ellos, pero definitivamente sería extraño para mí. De seguro conozco a sus padres, probablemente. ¿Dónde demonios está Jordan? No sé por qué ese pensamiento aparece en mi cabeza, pero por alguna razón, es instinto sospechar que también tendrá un problema con esto. ¿Dónde demonios está mi teléfono? Recuerdo que está conectado a mi cargador al lado de mi cama, y vuelvo a subir las escaleras y cruzo el pasillo, entro en mi habitación y lo desconecto. Al menos la mayoría de la fiesta se ha despejado, por lo que parece. No debería ser demasiado difícil deshacerse de los restantes ocho o algo así. Pero el patio trasero es un desastre, y he sido más que amable con esto. Es mejor que no pida otra maldita fiesta durante mucho tiempo. Bajando las escaleras, llamo a Cole con mi teléfono mientras me detengo dentro de la cocina. Sosteniéndolo en mi oído, escucho cuando suena su línea. Pero pronto escucho un tintineo que viene de algún lugar en la sala de estar y miro detrás de mí para ver una luz que viene del brazo del sofá. Es el teléfono de Cole que se enciende con mi llamada. Maldita sea. Mientras cuelgo, muevo mi pulgar y hago clic en el nombre de Jordan, llamándola. Pero cuando estoy a punto de presionar Llamar, miro hacia arriba y de repente me detengo. Esta allí. De pie en el extremo poco profundo de la piscina, hundida hasta los muslos, con los brazos unidos en la parte delantera de su cuerpo, tratando de mantener la parte superior puesta mientras Cole tira de los lazos en la parte posterior de su cuello. Se para frente a ella, mirando hacia abajo, mientras ella sacude la cabeza, tratando de resistir, pero sonriendo de todos modos. Puedo ver su vergüenza desde aquí. Una oleada de sentimientos me golpea, y muchos pensamientos nadan en mi cabeza mientras trato de mirar hacia otro lado, pero no puedo. No la mires, me digo.

• From City of Night (1963)

  A queen is talking to two men. “My name,” shes telling them, “is Miss Ogynyst. And I specialize in group parties—If You Know What I Mean.” A Vampire woman stalking the streets, fangs over her lower lip... craving blood... craving life. Grinding against her from the rear, a sailor pressed himself against the wiggling butt of a young calicoed girl holding hands with another man, who giggles uncontrollably as he crushes eagerly into her from the front. As I pass, the girl turns her face sideways to me, inviting me, and we kiss. Moving away, I begin to laugh, and I stop laughing and become strangely paranoically angry when a ratty old man out of nowhere says to me: “Wanna go with me, boy? For just a few minutes.” And in graphic terms he describes exactly what he wants to do. “You cant afford me,” I said, hugely pleased to put him down this way for taking my mask for granted. “Who you fooling? Ive seen you every day in the bars.” He looked at me with contempt. “Another one with delusions of grandeur,” he smirked, which oddly made me start laughing again. More clown faces, grotesquely paint-tattooed. At The Rocking Times a youngman I know wants me to help him “finish a rumble with some bad cats from Gretna.” “Hell, man, I dont want to fight anyone. Im not mad at anybody—nobody! Im happy!” I said crazily. At the same time, I feel depression and loneliness hammering at my senses. “Whats the matter?” he asks me, squint-eyed, “you too chicken to fight?” “Yes,” I said, “too chicken—and too happy—and too tired.” feeling my stomach toss, my head throb vengefully. Grimacing masks, leering masks, laughing masks, weeping masks.... I see Sylvia at the bar. Her face too is a mask. In a corner a man was glued to a woman in a bathing suit. “Disgusting!” a queen sneered, turning away from The Heterosexual Spectacle and bumping into a lesbian dressed like a male Apache dancer. “Excuse me, sir,” the queen said Tall ears wire-erect, a man beside me in a bunny suit removed the rabbit mask. “Wish fulfillment—thats what theyd call this costume!” he laughed merrily, although the wish-fulfillment costume, like the wish itself, was about to come apart; he hangs on to the bob-tailed pants with one hand. The Tin Man from Oz! Two youngmen who look like college students have been flirting with two queens in high drag. “You wanna drink?” one asks the queens, who nod demurely. The other youngman said: “Hell, let em get their own.” “But theyre ladies,” the first one protested. “The crazy-fuck they are!” said the second, staggering away. “Here we are! Just in from Los gay Angeles!” Arms eagle-spread, there stands Lola, Miss Destiny’s ugly queenfriend from downtown Los Angeles. And with her is Pauline, whos already spotted me.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Ni siquiera han llamado desde que los llamé hace una semana. No pueden hacer nada sin actuar como si fuera una gran imposición. Pedirles algo es deberles. Es una carga. Soy una carga. Pike cruza por mi mente. No tengo dudas que vendría. Pero eso solo enojaría a Cole si su padre descubriera que metió la pata esta noche, y tampoco quiero que Pike lo sepa. Es vergonzoso. Somos adultos y nos hemos buscado esto. Me está cuidando lo suficiente y no lo despertaré cuando tiene que trabajar por la mañana. Eso me hace una carga. La única persona a la que podría llamar es Shel, y su casa está al otro lado de la ciudad. No quiero llamar a Cole, porque, por supuesto, no puede conducir, pero tal vez podría enviar a otro amigo. Pero no. No lo llamaré. Estoy muy enojada ahora mismo. Y esta ciudad tampoco tiene taxis. Veo la mesa de billar, los ceniceros que están en los bordes y las marcas de arañazos en todo el asqueroso fieltro. Bueno, maldición. Amanecerá en unas pocas horas. Puedo caminar a casa entonces. Tendré que esperar. No le voy a pedir mierda a nadie. Saltando del taburete, vuelvo a dirigirme detrás de la barra y saco dos montones de toallas blancas limpias y las llevo a la mesa de billar, abriéndolas una por una y cubriendo la superficie sucia. Apagué el aire acondicionado hace horas, por lo que ahora hacen unos cómodos veinticuatro grados, pero saco mi sudadera con capucha de mi bolso en caso que quiera cubrirme más tarde. Agarrando mi teléfono, dejo encendida la luz del pasillo y me subo a la mesa, bajando lo suficiente, para tener espacio para acostarme. Metiendo mi brazo debajo de mi cabeza, bostezo y verifico el volumen y la batería de mi teléfono, asegurándome de tener suficiente energía en caso que algo salga mal mientras estoy sola aquí toda la noche. Algo como Jay regresando. Encuentro mi aplicación que hace sonar un ventilador y la pongo, con la esperanza de poder dormir un poco, pero no soy optimista No me siento segura, así que no puedo relajarme.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  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. Se pone de pie, sacudiéndose el polvo del culo, y ya no puedo mirarla a los ojos. Ella duerme en mi cama ahora. Sí, lo hace. Y la quiero allí más que nada en este momento. —Si me quieres, vamos a tener que enfrentarlo tarde o temprano —dice—. No puedes mantenerme encerrada aquí, Pike. Quiero hacer cosas contigo, salir contigo, ir a cenar, besarte y no tener que preocuparme de estar a puertas cerradas cuando lo hago. Guardo silencio un momento, y no espera a que encuentre mi lengua. Camina hacia la casa, y miro frenéticamente hacia la ventana antes de ir a buscarla. Agarrando su mano, la jalo por la esquina de la casa y la apoyo contra la pared. —No podemos —suplico, mirándola—. Aún no. Lo que estamos haciendo no está bien. Todos hablarán. Cole no lo entenderá. Sus ojos brillan con lágrimas mientras me mira, pero su mandíbula se tensa de ira. Retrocedo un paso, pasando mi mano por mi cabello. —¿Qué pasa si esto termina en dos semanas, y he destruido la relación que tengo con mi hijo, porque no pude mantener mi polla en mis pantalones? —le digo— . ¡Solo debí haber mantenido mis manos lejos de ti! ¿Por qué no pude resistir? ¿Eh? Es una pregunta retórica, pero es la verdad. Debí haber mantenido mis manos alejadas. ¿Quién diablos sabe cómo tomará esto Cole? ¿Cuánto más profundo podría Lindsay hundir sus garras en él por esto? Todo lo que hice en mi vida fue para él. No fui a la universidad porque ella no iba a trabajar, y necesitábamos dinero. Trabajé duro, así podía pagar todo lo que necesitaba. Finalmente se está acercando, y esto podría arruinar todo. Guarda silencio por un tiempo, y lo odio. Quiero saber qué está pensando, y cuando está enojada al menos sé que quiere pelear. En este momento, su respiración es lenta y constante, y solo me mira, demasiado tranquila. Asiente para sí misma. —No vale la pena —descifra. Y luego comienza a alejarse—. Sé que tienes razón. —Jordan… —No, está bien. —Se detiene—. Lo entiendo. Sabía que mi hermana tenía razón. Esto nunca iba a suceder. Eso no es… Pero es lo que quise decir, ¿verdad? Si no puedo decírselo ahora, ¿alguna vez planeaba hacerlo? ¿Cuándo sería más fácil? ¿Después de hubieran terminado por un par de años?

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  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. Pike vacila por un momento, y puedo ver sus puños apretados alrededor de la silla al otro lado de la mesa, pero no lo miraré a los ojos. Sé que acabo de actuar como una mocosa maleducada, y estoy un poquito avergonzada, especialmente porque no lo engañé, pero... Pudo haberla llevado a cualquier parte. La trajo aquí con la esperanza de que los viera juntos. La acompaña afuera, y no puedo oír las pocas palabras apagadas que intercambian, pero en cuanto se cierra la puerta y oigo el clic de la cerradura, exhalo. Se ha ido.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  —Mientras se haga, ¿cierto? —Y luego me mira, preguntando—: ¿Estoy haciendo un mal trabajo? —Por supuesto que n-no —contesto rápidamente, odiando lo rápido que me hace sentir como un estúpido desagradecido—. Se ve bien, pero ya estás haciendo suficiente. Más que suficiente. Él tiene el trabajo del césped. Puede encontrar el maldito tiempo. —Está bien. —Le resta importancia y deja el agua, girándose de nuevo hacia el cortacésped—. De todos modos necesito sol y el ejercicio. —Yo lo terminaré. —La detengo, adelantándome hacia el cortacésped. Pero me sujeta por el brazo. —Lo tengo —asegura, la furia mostrándose en sus ojos—. En serio. No estamos aquí de gratis. Puedo ocuparme de algunas labores. —No vestida así, no lo harás. Frunce el ceño. —¿Disculpa? Me acerco, bajando la voz mientras hablo con ella. —Mi vecino ha estado pegado a su balcón vigilando cada uno de tus movimientos —digo con aspereza—. Dios sabe lo que está pensando. —Ese no es mi problema —protesta—. Tenía calor. Salté a la piscina. Tengo la ropa puesta. —Sí, como una segunda piel —termino por ella, mostrando los dientes—. No puedes hacer esas cosas aquí. Es un vecindario familiar. No el club de striptease de tu hermana. —¡Estoy en el patio trasero! —masculla, tensándose—. ¿A quién le importa cómo estoy vestida? —¡A sus esposas! Arquea una ceja y su pecho se mueve con furiosas respiraciones. Bajo la mirada hacia ella, calmando mi voz. —Las mujeres en el vecindario no aprecian a las calienta pollas paseándose alrededor y tentando a sus maridos, ¿está bien? —lo digo planamente, para que entienda. Pero solo deja salir una risa amarga como si no pudiera creer que lo digo en serio. —Uh... sí, vaya. —Asiente y toma una respira profundamente, alzando la barbilla y mirándome fijamente—. Um, está bien, ésta es la cuestión... Soy consciente que probablemente las cosas eran un poco diferentes cuando eras un adolescente... ¡HACE OCHENTA Y NUEVE AÑOS! —replica. —Fue hace veinte años, gracias. —Pero hoy en día —continúa—, no le echamos la culpa a las mujeres por el comportamiento de los hombres. —Fija la mirada, luego hay una pequeña mueca en sus labios—. Si él quiere mirar, no puedo evitarlo. Si quiere irse a algún sitio privado y darse un poco de amor, oye, nunca lo sabré. ¡No es mi problema! Aprieto los puños. Maldita mocosa. No puedo recuperar el aliento, pero no rompemos el contacto visual. Tiene razón. Sé que tiene razón. No está haciendo nada malo. Solo... No me gusta él mirando. Mirándola. Después de unos segundos, me recompongo y me enderezo, disfrutando ser treinta centímetros más alto. —Cole hace el trabajo del césped. O yo —le indico, rodeándola hacia el cortacésped—. ¿Lo entiendes? No espero su respuesta mientras camino alrededor, dirigiéndome hacia el cortacésped. Pero escucho su dulce y baja voz detrás de mí. —Sí, papi. Parpadeo largo y fuerte, la mano picándome con la urgencia de darle una nalgada a alguien por primera vez en mi vida.

• From City of Night (1963)

  She wore bracelets—cheapglass-beaded. Rings. Sequins sprinkled in her hair. Tiny glittering dots pasted over her blue eyelids. A long, long necklace which wound about her neck at least five times dangled in a pendant where her clumsily stuffed false breasts rounden rather than protrude. Occasionally, she pulled tightly on the strand of the neckbeads—as if to choke herself. Her dress, short, reaches her knees, the legs crossed so that the purple spikeheeled shoes, coming to a long point like those of a witch, protrude on either side of the stool: one foot swinging back and forth impatiently, recklessly, constantly, like a pendulum. And this man—this queen—holds a foot-long frailly thin silver-beaded cigarette holder—glossy ebony—the beads buried in it teasingly like tiny, winking, alive eyes. She held the cigarette holder tightly—curiously tightly—from a clenched, angry, potentially menacing fist—and she blew the smoke out constantly, her head turning in abrupt snakehead movements, as if expecting to be assaulted from the rear and trying to obviate the surprise attack by diligent alertness. A queen. A flamboyant, flagrant, flashy queen. A queen in absurdly grotesque, clumsy drag. But there was something else. There is something else that accosts you immediately about this flaming, reckless, gaudy queen contemptuously puffing out smoke as if it were something burning fiercely from Within that will force you to acknowledge her blazing anger: When she slides off the stool momentarily—and nervously, uncertainly, often—to straighten the lavender folds of the lace dress, you will see that she is enormous, this queen: over six feet tall. And if youre a man and you stand near her—near that painted man, that demented-eyed queen like a startled white owl—you will surely be envious of his/her shoulders: which are immensely, improbably wide. And youll notice, beyond the lace drag, the idealized body of a powerful man. Her arms, beneath the delicate lace ruffles which dance up and down in curves, are bulgingly muscled, deeply vein-rooted. Her legs, supported precariously on the wobbly high-heeled witchshoes when she stands, reveal themselves strong and firm, molded solidly, massively, as if by years of physical labor or exercise which necessitates sustained straining. Yet this body and this voice (the husky voice too: as she turns, camping, to speak to me, the Cassandra owleyes becoming momentarily demure, the look of a man patently unsuccessfully mimicking a flirt woman), which should belong to that idealization of a man, are vitiated by the lavender drag-clothes. The gestures that were meant to match that man’s body have wilted.... Occasionally, as if by an impulse not quite drowned, not quite smothered by the perfumed femininity, she straightened up very much like a man. Then, as if realizing what shes done, her body relaxes, melts, curves effeminately, as if to compensate guiltily for the sudden flash of masculinity.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  —Esto es ridículo. —Lindsay me mira—. Soy la madre de tu hijo, y necesito un cuarto. —Mira a Jordan de nuevo—. Has pasado mucho tiempo en una cama con Cole. Otra noche o dos no te matarán, ¿verdad? Avanzo, plantando mis manos sobre la isla. —Ella no dormirá con Cole. Ya no están juntos. Es injusto. —Es una cama —dice finalmente Cole, suspirando—. Solo es dormir. Podemos manejarlo. Miro a Jordan, esperando que pelee y me ayude, pero lo único que hace es levantar los ojos, encontrarse con los míos y no decir nada. Como si fuese quien permite que esto suceda, y está esperando que haga algo. Si no va a respaldarme, entonces me veo estúpido, luchando por su honor. Es una niña grande. No entenderán por qué soy el único que protesta. Y ahora estoy asustado. Quiero que ella y Cole se reconcilien y sean amigos de nuevo eventualmente, pero no quiero que estén juntos, solos, toda la noche. Eran una pareja, maldición. Él conoce su cuerpo tan bien como yo. ¿Qué pasaría si comienzan a sentir lo que sintieron cuando estuvieron juntos por primera vez y todo fue bien? ¿Qué pasa si ella comienza a pensar que necesita a alguien... más joven? Ellos tienen historia. No voy a tener celos de mi hijo. No estamos compitiendo, pero la conoce mucho más. ¿Qué pasa si hablan y vuelven a conectar? Está en la punta de mi lengua simplemente decirlo de una vez. Es mía y no compartirá la cama con otro hombre. Pero miro a Lindsay y al desastre que ha sido, y cómo, en los últimos seis años, él se ha puesto de su parte en repetidas ocasiones. Ella siempre jugó como la víctima repente—. Es su habitación. No hay una jodida forma... —Jordan ni siquiera debería estar viviendo aquí —dice, casi en un silbido. Y luego se dirige a Jordan—. ¿Puedes compartir una habitación con mi hijo por un par y lo hizo sentir culpable para que la defendiera, y la defenderá otra vez porque sabe que puedo defenderme por mi cuenta. Estaría muy feliz de descubrir que estaba follando a Jordan a espaldas de Cole. Ella solo está buscando algo que odiar, y no pondré a Jordan en medio de eso. Dejo caer los ojos, apenas capaz de abrir mi mandíbula. —Jordan, hay mantas en el sofá —digo en voz baja—. Avísame si tienes frío. Empiezo a caminar fuera de la habitación, pero luego escucho que Jordan finalmente habla. Me detengo y la miro, pero solo se enfoca hacia adelante, totalmente tranquila. Aprieto mi puño derecho y salgo de la habitación, dirigiéndome escaleras arriba. Son apenas las siete de un viernes por la noche, pero si no tengo espacio, haré algo estúpido. Como elegir la pelea que tan desesperadamente quiero con ella ahora mismo, frente a todos.

• From City of Night (1963)

  “Your palm says be careful,” she insisted, reaching again urgently for my hand. “See?—here it is.” With a long-nailed, heavily ringed finger, she outlined a sign on my hand. The little boy repeats: “Evil city, boy.” “I told you: Im staying with a friend,” I said. “Wont do!” the woman said, shaking her head urgently. “Ive got to go now,” I said. “Look here,” she said, and her voice was no longer sinister; matter-of-fact now, almost business-like now. “I got a real good easy deal for you. Im gonna offer you a job.” “Im not looking for a job,” I told her, regretting my words instantly, because shes looking at me knowingly, pegging me. “Dont have to tell me that,” she said. “I know…Im gonna make it easy for you, though. Gonna offer you a good job.... Mardi Gras, thats the time to scoop up the money!” She snatched at the table to emphasize the promised ease. “How?” “Every way. We decide how. I’ll teach you. You grab em!” Thrusting out her hand, she grabbed me by the arm. Now the blank eyes nail me knowingly, and I resented it “Dont play innocent with me, boy!” she warned, her hand gripping my arm, the long nails almost piercing my flesh. “Save the act for them others,” she said contemptuously. I thrust her arm away angrily. “Innocence,” she whispered. “Innocence may be all right for those that got it. Us that lost it aint never gonna get it back.” For a long while she remained silent, staring into my eyes; then, bluntly, she said: “You bring em here. We score—one way or another.” “If I wanted to do that,” I said cautiously, trying to keep from showing anger at her sureness, “I’d do it on my own.” “Let me tell you something, smart boy,” she said. “I been in the Quarter for years. How long you been here—few hours?” She threw back her head and laughed raucously. The laughter booms through the room. The earrings glittered crazily in the light from the fireplace, tiny dots stabbing at my eyes in the semidarkness. “Smart, smart, smart dumb boy!” she chortled sinisterly. I felt angry, but I smiled. “Youve got me all wrong, lady—despite your... powers.” “Go ahead—laugh,” she said. Then, narrowing the colorless eyes: almost vindictively, almost as if it were a curse aimed directly at me, she said: “This is The Message, bright boy: Mardi Gras aint just any old carnival. Them others got it all wrong. Im gonna tell you The Real Truth: People wear masks three hundred and sixty-four days a year. Mardi Gras, they wear their own faces! What you think is masks is really—... Themselves!” She seemed to be about to spring at me, her face mere inches from mine. “Witches!” she shouted at me. “Devils! Cannibals! Vampires! Clowns—lots of em.... And some—” she said, relenting slightly, “just some, mind you: some—... angels!...” Her strange sudden laughter followed me into the street. SYLVIA: All My Saintly Children

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  Now I didn’t know whether to cry or to laugh. ‘How can you say such a thing?’ I asked her. ‘Because it’s true.’ She sounded all at once rather sullen. ‘I wouldn’t have bought you such a fine dress, if I’d known you were only going to wear it to go flirting in.’ ‘Oh!’ I stamped my foot, unsteadily - I was as drunk, I suppose, as she was. ‘Oh!’ I put my fingers to the neck of my gown, and began to fumble with its fastenings. ‘I shall take the dam’ dress off right here and you shall have it back,’ I said, ‘if that’s how you feel about it!’ At that she took another step towards me and seized my arm. ‘Don’t be a fool,’ she said in a slightly chastened tone. I shook her off and continued to work - quite fruitlessly, since the wine, together with my anger and surprise, had made me terribly clumsy - at the buttons of my frock. Kitty took hold of me again; soon we were almost tussling. ‘I won’t have you call me a flirt!’ I said as she tugged at me. ‘How could you call me one? How could you? Oh! If you just knew -’ I put my hand to the back of my collar; her fingers followed my own, her face came close. Seeing it, I felt all at once quite dazed. I thought I had become her sister, as she wanted. I thought I had my queer desires cribbed and chilled and chastened. Now I knew only that her arm was about me, her hand on mine, her breath hot upon my cheek. I grasped her - not the better to push her away, but in order to hold her nearer. Gradually we ceased our wrestling and grew still, our breaths ragged, our hearts thudding. Her eyes were round and dark as jet; I felt her fingers leave my hand and move against my neck. Then all at once there came a blast of noise from the passageway beyond, and the sound of footsteps. Kitty started in my arms as if a pistol had been fired, and took a half-dozen steps, very rapidly, away. A woman - Esther, the conjuror’s assistant - appeared on the other side of the open doorway. She was pale, and looked terribly grave. She said: ‘Kitty, Nan, you won’t believe it.’ She reached for her handkerchief, and put it to her mouth. ‘There’s some boys just come, from the Charing Cross Hospital. They are saying Gully Sutherland is there’ - this was the comic singer who had appeared with Kitty at the Canterbury Palace - ‘they are saying Gully is there - that he has got drunk, and shot himself dead!’ It was true - we all heard, next day, how horribly true it was. I should never have suspected it, but had learned since coming to London that Gully was known in the business as something of a lush.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Salto de la camioneta, las duras gotas de lluvia golpean instantáneamente la parte superior de mi cabeza y mis hombros, instintivamente me agacho un poco mientras cierro la puerta y corro hacia el edificio. Mis botas salpican pequeños charcos, y corro hacia la tina de una camioneta de la compañía, bajando de inmediato la puerta trasera y tomando tantos sacos de arena como puedo cargar en mis brazos. El amarillo brillante aparece a mi lado y, sin decir una palabra, Jordan hace lo mismo, rápidamente carga más bolsas en sus brazos y me sigue por el costado del edificio hasta donde los chicos están esperando. Dejo caer las bolsas y miro a través del marco de acero de la estructura, notando la plataforma de cemento destapada en el nivel inferior. Hijo de puta. Nueve hombres, incluido mi mejor amigo, me miran fijamente, esperando instrucciones. El viento sopla la lluvia en la parte trasera de mis jeans, empapando el material en mi piel. —¡Quiero estas bolsas alrededor de todo el perímetro! —grito sobre la tormenta—. ¡Un metro de alto! ¿Entendido? Rápidos asentimientos. —¡Y cubran ese cemento, maldita sea! Muevo mi barbilla hacia la plataforma descubierta que está arruinándose. Lluvia o no, siempre debe cubrirse, por si acaso, y alguien la dejó así en el último turno. Dutch, mi mejor amigo desde la escuela secundaria, mueve sus ojos marrones a mi lado, suavizando su expresión al instante. Echo un vistazo para ver a Jordan, su cabello escondido en la capucha de su impermeable, pero afortunadamente no se queda para ser presentada. Volviendo a la camioneta, saca más sacos de arena de la plataforma, y me vuelvo hacia Dutch que me mira con curiosidad. Solo sacudo la cabeza. Ahora no. No es extraño que la novia de mi hijo quiera pagar y ser útil, pero es extraño que él no esté aquí también. ¿Él sabe que ella tomó su lugar, ayudando esta mañana? ¿Qué clase de hombre está de acuerdo con eso? Le enseñé a cumplir con sus obligaciones, maldita sea. O tal vez simplemente no quería venir conmigo. Necesito hacer algo con respecto a él, pero no sé qué. Esta táctica de “esperar y ver” no funciona. Necesita una patada en el culo. Los hombres se ponen a trabajar, cargan pilas de tres bolsas y las colocan a los lados del edificio, mientras yo saco mi navaja de la caja de herramientas en la camioneta y corto rectángulos de lona azul para engrapar alrededor del marco del primer piso. Antes de darme cuenta, ha pasado una hora, las lonas están alzadas, los sacos de arena están haciendo su trabajo, y aparte de mí, todos parecen haberse desvanecido. Arrojo mi cuchillo y la pistola de grapas de nuevo en la camioneta y cierro la puerta, mirando alrededor del sitio en busca de Jordan.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  Good luck!’ The canon gave the priest the kiss of peace, and left him. The priest never saw him again. He soon discovered that the so-called formula was useless; every experiment failed, and every session ended in tears. He had been completely fooled. The canon was a master of the black art of treachery. Consider, gentlemen, how people in every walk of life strive for gold. There is so great a desire for it that it has become scarce. I could not count the numbers involved in alchemy, for example. They are led astray by philosophers who speak in misty terms. They never understand a word of their jargon. Their minds are addled. They chatter nonsense like magpies. They never achieve anything. If a man has enough money, he will easily learn how to turn his wealth to nothing. This is the only transmutation that takes place. Mirth is replaced by sorrow. Full purses are changed into empty purses. The hopes and happiness of those who have lent money are turned into curses and bitterness. They ought to be ashamed. Those who have been burned should flee the fire. I have one message for those of you who dabble in the false art. Abandon it. Leave it before you are ruined. Better late than never. If you lose everything, I am afraid that it will be too late. Seek, but you will not find. You will be like blind Bayard, blundering everywhere, not seeing the snares and traps in front of him. Can he stay on the high road? Of course not. He crashes into rocks and hedges. That is the way of alchemy, too. If you cannot see with your eyes, try to use your inner sight. Try to be guided by reason and judgement rather than staring wildly around for any portent. You may think you are wide awake, but you are sleepwalking to disaster. So put out the fire. Smother the coals. Give up the pursuit. If you don’t believe me, believe the writings of the true alchemists themselves. You have heard of Arnaldus of Villanova? In his treatise on alchemy, the Rosarium Philosophorum, or rose-garden of the philosophers, he makes this statement. ‘No man,’ he writes, ‘can mortify mercury without the help of its brother, sulphur.’ The father of alchemy, Hermes Trismegistus, put the same

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  ‘“You tell me that there is an old proverb, ‘The sight of a leaking roof, the smell of smoke, and the sound of wives, are enough to make a man flee from his home.’ You silly old fool. What are you talking about? You say women will hide their vices until they are safely married. Only then will they show them. That is an idiot’s opinion. They say that a good Englishman takes stock of his oxen and his cattle, his horses and his hounds, before he buys them. He tries out his bowls and his washbasins, his stools and his spoons, to make sure that they are sound. He even checks his chamber pots. Why does he not take the same precaution with his wife? You old dotard! You fool! How dare you say that we show our vices only when we are married? ‘“And another thing. You say that I am only happy when you are praising my good looks. That I expect you to gaze lovingly upon me, and call me ‘my most lovely wife’ in public. I expect you to make my birthday a holy day, do I? And receive expensive presents? I never heard such nonsense in my life. You are supposed to receive my old nurse and my chambermaid in great state, and to entertain my father and all his relatives? Lies. All lies from the mouth of an old goat. ‘“Oh yes. Then you make a fuss about our apprentice, Johnny. Just because he has lovely blond hair - it shines like gold, it really does - and just because he accompanies me on my shopping expeditions, you become suspicious. Johnny means nothing to me. If you died tomorrow, I would not give him a second look. And tell me this. Why do you hide the keys to your chest? It is as much mine as yours. Do you think you are going to make a fool out of me? You are not going to get my body and my goods. You must be mad even to consider it. You can have one or the other. But not both. Think about it, old man. What is the point of spying on me, and questioning the servants? If you had your way, I would be locked up in that damned chest as well. What you should be saying is this. ‘Oh dear wife, please go wherever you like. Feel free. I won’t listen to any rumours about you. I know you, Dame Alice, to be a true and faithful wife.’ That is what you should say. We wives never like husbands who pry or who try to control us. We must be at liberty. That’s the truth of it.

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

  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. The power Wittig accords to this “system” of language is enormous. Concepts, categories, and abstractions, she argues, can effect a physical and material violence against the bodies they claim to organize and interpret: “There is nothing abstract about the power that sciences and theories have to act materially and actually upon our bodies and minds, even if the discourse that produces it is abstract. It is one of the forms of domination, its very expression, as Marx said. I would say, rather, one of its exercises. All of the oppressed know this power and have had to deal with it.” 32 The power of language to work on bodies is both the cause of sexual oppression and the way beyond that oppression. Language works neither magically nor inexorably: “there is a plasticity of the real to language: language has a plastic action upon the real.” 33 Language assumes and alters its power to act upon the real through locutionary acts, which, repeated, become entrenched practices and, ultimately, institutions. The asymmetrical structure of language that identifies the subject who speaks for and as the universal with the male and identifies the female speaker as “particular” and “interested” is in no sense intrinsic to particular languages or to language itself. These asymmetrical positions cannot be understood to follow from the “nature” of men or women, for, as Beauvoir established, no such “nature” exists: “One must understand that men are not born with a faculty for the universal and that women are not reduced at birth to the particular. The universal has been, and is continually, at every moment, appropriated by men. It does not happen, it must be done. It is an act, a criminal act, perpetrated by one class against another. It is an act carried out at the level of concepts, philosophy, politics.” 34 Although Irigaray argues that “the subject is always already masculine,” Wittig disputes the notion that “the subject” is exclusively masculine territory. The very plasticity of language, for her, resists the fixing of the subject position as masculine. Indeed, the presumption of an absolute speaking subject is, for Wittig, the political goal for “women,” which, if achieved, will effectively dissolve the category of “women” altogether.

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

  But does Riviere know the homosexuality of the woman in masquerade that she describes? When it comes to the counterpart of the analogy that she herself sets up, the woman who “wishes for masculinity” is homosexual only in terms of sustaining a masculine identification, but not in terms of a sexual orientation or desire. Invoking Jones’s typology once again, as if it were a phallic shield, she formulates a “defense” that designates as asexual a class of female homosexuals understood as the masquerading type: “his first group of homosexual women who, while taking no interest in other women, wish for ‘recognition’ of their masculinity from men and claim to be the equals of men, or in other words, to be men themselves” (37). As in Lacan, the lesbian is here signified as an asexual position, as indeed, a position that refuses sexuality. For the earlier analogy with Ferenzci to become complete, it would seem that this description enacts the “defense” against female homosexuality as sexuality that is nevertheless understood as the reflexive structure of the “homosexual man.” And yet, there is no clear way to read this description of a female homosexuality that is not about a sexual desire for women. Riviere would have us believe that this curious typological anomaly cannot be reduced to a repressed female homosexuality or heterosexuality. What is hidden is not sexuality, but rage. One possible interpretation is that the woman in masquerade wishes for masculinity in order to engage in public discourse with men and as a man as part of a male homoerotic exchange. And precisely because that male homoerotic exchange would signify castration, she fears the same retribution that motivates the “defenses” of the homosexual man. Indeed, perhaps femininity as masquerade is meant to deflect from male homosexuality—that being the erotic presupposition of hegemonic discourse, the “hommo-sexuality” that Irigaray suggests. In any case, Riviere would have us consider that such women sustain masculine identifications not to occupy a position in a sexual exchange, but, rather, to pursue a rivalry that has no sexual object or, at least, that has none that she will name. Riviere’s text offers a way to reconsider the question: What is masked by masquerade? In a key passage that marks a departure from the restricted analysis demarcated by Jones’s classificatory system, she suggests that “masquerade” is more than the characteristic of an “intermediate type,” that it is central to all “womanliness”: The reader may now ask how I define womanliness or where I draw the line between genuine womanliness and the “masquerade”. My suggestion is not, however, that there is any such difference; whether radical or superficial, they are the same thing. (38)

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  ‘No way,’ Thomas replied. ‘I have already confessed to the curate this morning. I have told him everything. There is no need to repeat it all.’ ‘In any case, give me some of your money. Give us gold to build a cloister for the Lord. We friars have been forced to live off oysters and mussels while people like you have drunk and eaten well. Think of what we have suffered to raise that cloister. Yet God knows that we still have not completed the foundations. The pavement is not laid. Not a tile has been put in place. We owe forty pounds alone for building materials. Can you believe it? So help us, Thomas, in the name of He who harrowed hell! Otherwise we will have to sell our books. If we cannot preach, then the whole world will suffer. To take us from our pulpits and our preaching crosses will be to take the sun out of the sky. I am being serious. Who can preach and do good works as we can? We are not some novelty. There have been friars around since the time of Elijah. And that was a very long time ago. There are records mentioning us. I need your charity, Thomas! For God’s sake, charity!’ And at that the friar fell down upon his knees, and crossed himself. Thomas himself was already in a very bad temper. He realized well enough that the friar was full of shit. He was a liar and a hypocrite. If he had had the strength, he would have tossed him into the fire. ‘I can only give you,’ he said, ‘what I possess on my person now. Did you say that I had become a lay brother?’ ‘Yes. Of course. I have brought the letter of fraternity with me. I was going to give it to your wife for safe-keeping.’ ‘That is good. Thank you. I will make a donation to your convent, while I still live. You will hold it in your hand. I promise you. But there is one condition. You have to swear to me that every other friar in your convent has an equal share of what I am about to give you. Swear to that, on your holy brotherhood, without cavil or hesitation.’ ‘I swear it,’ the friar replied, ‘on the blood and bones of Christ.’ He shook hands with Thomas. ‘You can have trust in me.’ ‘All right then,’ Thomas said. ‘Just put your hand down my back. Down there. If you grope just behind my buttocks, you will find something that I have hidden away for your benefit.’ ‘Aha,’ the friar thought. ‘This is going with me. This is my prize.’