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 City of Night (1963)

  “Thats right!... Now I let him, Out of the Goodness of My Heart, stay with me—again! And! After he hocked all my very best drag!—for ten measly bucks, mind you! And then! He comes knocking on my door he aint got no pad to stay. And, honeys, I am a gentlewoman, and I let him stay in my pad. I-never-was-no-good-at-learning-my-lessons. And! That cunthungry sonuvabitch—he done it again—and someone told me he gave one of my bracelets to some ugly cunt hes been after.... Oh, if I see him! Oh, if I just see him! I swear: Im gonna make the wildest scene ever, no matter where I find him! Right here in Pershing Square, even!... And if the cops come, why, I’ll just let them know he stole my drag, and, honeys,” she adds slyly, eyes twinkling with cop-bitchiness, “the cops got so many queens on the force themselves that theyll certainly understand what a girl feels like with all her drag clothes in hock! Why! She feels: Lost!... And did I ever tell you who I saw at the Long Beach Drag Ball last Halloween?” she goes on gleefully-bitchily. “Sergeant Lorelei—thats who! And honey, he was the maddest drag youve even seen. She looked like Sophie Tucker—simply the maddest drag I ever laid eyes on! I guess he thought nobody would recognize him out of his uniform.” She looks furiously now about the park, remembering her stolen drag again. “That Buddy!... Now you know I aint opposed to clipping no one, especially scores that wanna pay you a couple of bucks for all kindsa kicks and tricks,” she adds—and Im remembering the man whose pants she clipped and left him in the head. “But! When a thief! clips a thief!—well! That Is Too Much! The line has gotta be drawn somewhere—or we’ll all be: Lost! And, for me, This Is The End.... And, babies, it’s no secret: I got a weakness for Buddy—although—” she adds flirtatiously, pursing her lips as if in a kiss “—I love you two too. Still and all, I do got a weakness for Buddy. He may not have the world’s biggest piece of meat—but never mind: I aint one to go around flipping over size. Still, he is just as cute as can be—and that sonuvabitch, he knows I am hung up on him. So He Does This—takes advantage of my gentle nature!... Anyway, cute or not, this is definitely The End!” She glanced about the park. “Oh, oh, here comes Miss Sergeant Morgan. I’d better split!” With a wave of her hand, she left us, weaving her way along the walk, peering into the park to see if she can spot Buddy. And indeed! Sergeant Morgan is making his rounds of the park—flanked by two cops as usual. As he passes us, his giant ass swings like the stick he carries. “You really think he went to that drag party like Darlin Dolly said?” Chuck asks me.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  No es que odie a April. No me importaba lo que le hizo al matrimonio de él antes. Se necesitan dos para bailar tango, ¿no? Y Marcus Weathers también fue el culpable. Pero me importa ahora que está poniendo el blanco demasiado cerca de casa. Pike está tomado. —¿Qué problema tienes con esto? —cuestiona, caminando de regreso a la mesa—. Soy un hombre adulto que ha estado teniendo relaciones sexuales desde antes que nacieras. Estoy acostumbrado a tenerlo siempre que quiero, y no respondo ante ti, ¿me oyes? —Sus palabras muerden, y me siento pequeña—. Seguiré haciendo lo que quiera, independientemente de las opiniones de una niña que vive bajo mi techo. La palabra "niña" me golpea como un martillo, y mi corazón se hunde. Aprieto los dientes, convirtiendo el dolor en enojo. —Lo entiendo. —Lo miro—. Me iré a mi habitación entonces. Me levanto, y sus ojos se posan inmediatamente en mi estómago desnudo. La camiseta cae muy por encima de mi ombligo, y disfruto de la forma en que su cuerpo se congela y tiene que apartar los ojos. Doy vuelta alrededor de la mesa, hacia la sala de estar, pero recuerdo la vela encendida. Dando la vuelta, me inclino sobre la mesa ovalada, arqueo mi espalda y siento cómo mis pantalones cortos descienden para dejar al descubierto la correa roja dela misma tanga que usé cuando salimos al patio hace una semana. —Me olvidé de la vela —le digo, alzando mis ojos ardientes hacia él—. Pero puedo dejarla encendida si quieres. Sé que el rojo es tu favorito. ¿La vela roja o la tanga roja? No se necesita más de una suposición para saber en cuál está su atención. Traga y sus tímidos ojos miran la seda roja que se asoma sobre los pantalones cortos. Esbozo una sonrisa, y sus ojos se clavan en los míos, estrechándose. —Me estás haciendo enojar a cada segundo. —Su ronco gruñido suena peligroso—. Arruinaste mi noche, y todavía tengo mucha energía para desahogarme, así que ten cuidado. Cierro los ojos, formulando mi deseo, y apago la vela antes de volver a enderezarme. —Esta “niña” es la razón por la que tienes tanta energía para desahogarte, ¿no? —me burlo—. Eres un mentiroso. Cuadra sus hombros, respirando con dificultad.

• From City of Night (1963)

  “Ive got a vacancy here,” the squat man goes on officially. “That kid you sent me—the skinny one,” he said to Buzz, “hes the one that left.” Purposely Im looking blankly at him. He seems uneasy at my attitude. Buzz notices it. “Hes all right,” he tells the squat man, “Ive known him a long time.” He puts his hand intimately on my shoulder to emphasize it. “Umm,” the squat man said. “All youve got to do here,” he said to me, “is hand out towels to these guys—keep the place clean. I dont pay you much. But I leave it up to you how much you make—on tips.” Im still playing it square, not saying anything. “You sure this is the guy you told me about on the telephone?” the squat man asked Buzz again impatiently. Buzz nods. “Look, boy,” the squat man says, “I’ll tell you straight: I need a small slender guy something like you—some of these creeps prefer them; theyre pretty weird; you cant tell what they want...” Hes trying to indicate that he himself is uninterested, disassociating himself from “these creeps”; indicating that hes outside of the scene; that this, to him, is a business. I wonder how Buzz can take it.... Several times the squat man twisted a wedding band on his finger, to bring attention to it. As usual, I react negatively to being appraised that coldly, to being, if only by implication, talked about as if Im not around. Suddenly, from somewhere beyond this room, theres a shout. The squat man disappeared. We followed him into the lounge. I heard excited voices coming from the cubicles—snatches of talk: “Ive warned you—not so loud!” the squat man is saying. A man emerged from one of the cubicles, going to the head. His nose is bleeding profusely. As he passes us, I see on his oddly smiling face—which he doesnt bother to cover with a hand or a towel—an unmistakable look of pained satisfaction.... Back in the room with the toweled shelves, the squat man says to me: “Well?” “Well what?” I glare at him, strangely filled with hatred for him. “I believe youve got it all wrong,” he says coldly. “I run a legitimate business. Sometimes things get out of hand. But the cops dont disturb me. It’s just that these guys—” again contemptuously “—theyre ‘strange’—and they like different types around them.” Im still staring at him, enjoying seeing him put on this way. Then I walked toward the door, to leave. “You—” he started and broke off abruptly. “I dont think I’d hire you, you wouldnt do very well here,” he said, opening the door—attempting to beat me to the gesture. Feeling the perversity seething inside me, I shot back at him, aiming at what I knew would be his weakest spot: “Im not your type,” I said, watching him blanch.

• 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 Birthday Girl (2018)

  —Está bien —me asegura—. Solo es un corsé, Pike. —Todos te están mirando. Asiente, sonriendo sarcásticamente. —Ese es el punto. —Jordan. —Suspiro, intentando susurrar mientras me aprieto para rodear a un anciano en la barra—. Este es un pueblo pequeño. ¿Qué pasa si tu padre entrara? —No viene aquí —dice, cerrando el cajón de la caja registradora y mirándome finalmente—. Y normalmente tú tampoco. —Un rubor cruza sus mejillas—. Además, no soy estúpida. No tomaría parte en algo que creyera que me humillará. Se da vuelta y entrega el cambio al cliente, pero él le hace señas para que se lo quede. Sonríe y se da la vuelta, dejando caer los billetes en un recipiente ya desbordado. —¿Qué siquiera estás haciendo aquí? —dice, comenzando a mezclar otra bebida—. Pensé que no vendrías a la despedida de soltero, porque... —deja la botella y hace comillas en el aire mientras imita mi voz gruñona—, tiene que haber al menos una persona sobria en el trabajo mañana. Arqueo una ceja hacia ella. No sueno así. Metiendo mi mano en mi bolsillo, saco el volante y lo empujo sobre la barra hacia ella. Se queda quieta y su rostro palidece. —¿Dónde encontraste eso? Lo agarra y lo tira en algún lugar debajo de ella. A un bote de basura, probablemente. Tomando una servilleta, la coloca frente a un cliente y le da la bebida fresca que acaba de preparar. —Si necesitas dinero —le digo mientras se gira para marcar un pedazo de papel—. Te prestaré lo que sea que necesites, ¿de acuerdo? Y se detiene, moviendo lentamente sus ojos hacia mí. Su mirada se agudiza, enojada y parece como si quisiera gritarme, pero no lo hace. En cambio, se da la vuelta rápidamente, camina hacia el otro lado de la barra y atraviesa la partición, girándose solo lo suficientemente rápido para hacerme un gesto con el dedo para seguirla antes de volverse a girar y dirigirse por el pasillo.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  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? Me doy una sacudida mental y respiro profundamente. Deja su mierda y ve a casa. No es mi problema. Esta es su decisión. Y si yo fuera ella, habría hecho lo mismo. Estoy realmente orgulloso de mí. No es ajena a mis exabruptos o mis demandas prepotentes y me estoy manteniendo asombrosamente callado, dado el hecho que odio este vecindario y toda esta situación está desgastando mis engranajes. Puedo aguantarlo durante cinco minutos más, ¿cierto? Y si lo hago, quizás entonces me premiaré con Dairy Queen de camino casa por mantener mi boca cerrada por una vez. Su padre, Chip, está desmayado en un sillón reclinable a la izquierda, la televisión reproduciendo alguna serie en un volumen bajo, mientras un par de mujeres están sentadas en la mesa de la cocina a la derecha. Están fumando cigarrillos con latas de cerveza frente a ellas. El equipo de sonido de un auto resuena a la distancia y unos pocos petardos de pólvora explotan afuera a nuestro alrededor. —¿Necesitan ayuda? —pregunta una señora de cabello oscuro desde la mesa. Levanta su cerveza, tomando un trago y dándome apenas algo de atención. Jordan sacude su cabeza y se desvía hacia la cocina, alrededor de las señoras en la mesa. No nos presenta y ciertamente no me importa si esta señora no lo hace. Su hija o su hijastra, viene a casa con un hombre que nunca has visto ¿y eso no hace que le hagas al menos una pregunta? Asumo que es su madrastra, de cualquier forma, ya que tiene los mismos ojos pequeños y cafés del chico de afuera. Inhalo el olor a desinfectante mezclado con un toque de burritos y tierra húmeda, como si algo se hubiera mojado por la lluvia o estuviera pudriéndose en

• 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.’

• From The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  The way I saw it, Dad owed me. I’d looked after his kids all summer, I’d kept him in beer and cigarette money, and I’d helped him fleece that miner Robbie. I figured I had Dad in my back pocket. When I got home from school that afternoon, Mom was still curled up on the sofa bed, a small pile of paperbacks next to her. Dad was sitting at the drafting table, rolling a cigarette. He beckoned to me to follow him into the kitchen. Mom watched us go. Dad closed the door and looked at me gravely. “Your mother claims you back-talked her.” “Yes,” I said. “It’s true.” “Yes, sir,” he corrected me, but I didn’t say anything. “I’m disappointed in you,” he went on. “You know damn good and well that you are to respect your parents.” “Dad, Mom’s not sick, she’s playing hooky,” I said. “She has to take her obligations more seriously. She has to grow up a little.” “Who do you think you are?” he asked. “She’s your mother.” “Then why doesn’t she act like one?” I looked at Dad for what felt like a very long moment. Then I blurted out, “And why don’t you act like a dad?” I could see the blood surge into his face. He grabbed me by the arm. “You apologize for that comment!” “Or what?” I asked. Dad shoved me up against the wall. “Or by God I’ll show you who’s boss around here.” His face was inches from mine. “What are you going to do to punish me?” I asked. “Stop taking me to bars?” Dad drew back his hand as if to smack me. “You watch your mouth, young lady. I can still whip your butt, and don’t think I won’t.” “You can’t be serious,” I said. Dad dropped his hand. He pulled his belt out of the loops on his work pants and wrapped it a couple of times around his knuckles. “Apologize to me and to your mother,” he said. “No.” Dad raised the belt. “Apologize.” “No.” “Then bend over.” Dad was standing between me and the door. There was no way out except through him. But it never occurred to me to either run or fight. The way I saw it, he was in a tighter spot than I was. He had to back down, because if he sided with Mom and gave me a whipping, he would lose me forever. We stared at each other. Dad seemed to be waiting for me to drop my eyes, to apologize and tell him I was wrong so we could go back to being like we were, but I kept holding his gaze. Finally, to call his bluff, I turned around, bent over slightly, and rested my hands on my knees. I expected him to turn and walk away, but there were six stinging blows on the backs of my thighs, each accompanied by a whistle of air.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Imbécil. Probablemente sus hijos están en la casa, y está mirando lascivamente como un jodido pervertido. Intento pensar en que prácticamente estoy haciendo lo mismo, pero siento una urgencia protectora de conseguir un arma o algo. Esta no va a ser tu niñera, idiota. De repente el cortacésped se detiene, y giro hacia Jordan justo a tiempo para verla caminar hacia el borde de la piscina, respirando pesadamente y empapada en sudor. Se aparta el cabello del rostro, respira profundamente y luego da un paso, cayendo en la parte profunda de la piscina y hundiéndose, con ropa y todo. Dejo de respirar. Hace calor. Cerca de los treinta y dos grados y necesita refrescarse. Pero muevo la mirada hacia Kyle mientras inclina la barbilla, intentando conseguir un mejor vistazo. Entonces Jordan resurge a la superficie, flotando de espaldas y descansando allí, su camiseta moldeada a su cuerpo como una segunda piel. Duros, pequeños puntos señalan al cielo por debajo de su camiseta y veo una sonrisa curvarse en los jodidos labios de él. —Maldito infierno —siseo entre dientes. Volviendo a meter la cabeza en la habitación y cerrando la ventana de golpe. Dejando la habitación, salgo rápidamente al pasillo y bajo corriendo las escaleras. Moviéndome por la cocina, atravieso la lavandería y salgo por la puerta trasera. Jordan está nadando junto al borde de la piscina de nuevo, saliendo. Alzo la mirada para ver a Kyle observando mientras ella sale, su ropa aplastada contra su cuerpo y el agua corriendo por cada centímetro disponible de su piel. Él desliza su mirada hacia mí y le enseño mi dedo medio. Simplemente se ríe y sacude la cabeza, regresando a su jodida casa. Jordan toma su cabello, pasándoselo por su hombro y escurriéndolo. Bajo la mirada por sus piernas, donde el agua se desliza por sus tonificados muslos y sus pantalones cortos mezclándose con su trasero. Me enderezo, poniendo una expresión dura. —Jordan —la llamo. Se gira, mirándome, y duda solo un momento antes de dirigirse hacia mí. Debe tener alguna idea de que no está completamente presentable ahora mismo, porque cruza los brazos sobre su pecho. —Pensé que le había dicho a Cole que cortara el césped. —Intento esconder el gruñido construyéndose en mi pecho. Asiente y toma su agua fría de la mesa del césped.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  So the woeful maid is conducted to the ship with every formality and every ceremony. ‘Jesus Christ be with you all,’ she cried out from the deck. And the crowd shouted out, ‘Farewell! Farewell Constance!’ They had no more to say. She tried to maintain her composure, but it was difficult. Now I must leave her on the high seas and return once more to Syria. The mother of the sultan, a woman who was a pit of vice, knew all about her son’s intentions; the sultaness had heard that he was about to abandon his old religion. So she sent for her own privy council. They gathered in the palace according to her instructions, and when they were all assembled together she told them her plan. ‘Lords,’ she said, ‘you all know well enough that my son is about to turn away from the laws of the Koran, vouchsafed to Mahomet by God Himself, and to do great dishonour to our holy religion. But I make my vow, before you all, that I would rather die than disobey the least one of our religious laws. ‘What will happen to us if we accept this new dispensation? We will be the slaves of Rome. But that is not the worst of it. If we renounce Mahomet, we will be consigned to everlasting torment. No. It cannot be. But, my lords, I have a plan. Will you follow me in the enterprise I am about to reveal? Assuredly it will save us all.’ They assented, and swore an oath that they would all live or die by her side. They would persuade all of their friends and colleagues, too, to support and protect her. So, assured of their fealty, she began to describe to them the scheme that she had contrived. ‘First of all,’ she said, ‘we will pretend to embrace the false religion. A little baptismal water will not affect us. I will then throw such a feast and festival that the sultan will be paid back in kind. This heathen girl may be as white as the day she was baptized but, by the time I have finished with her, she will need more than holy water to wash away the blood. A Christian font will not be enough.’ Oh sultaness, root of iniquity! You are a harpie, unnatural and accursed. You are a reptile with a woman’s face, as wicked as the serpent who lies coiled in hell. You are false and fraudulent, confounding good and evil with your malice. You are a nest of vices. Dreadful Satan, you have been watchful and malicious ever since you fell from heaven. You know how to entrap women. It was you who tempted Eve, the source of all our woe. Now you wish to destroy this Christian marriage. And what will be the instrument of your guile? Alas it will be another woman.

• From Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life (1994)

  This is not to be underestimated. My nerves are shot as it is; the last thing I need would be an onslaught of thunder and silent screams, with cymbals, fangs, winds pushing forest fires across the land; I mean, who needs it? Then I started to write about my envy. I got to look in some cold dark corners, see what was there, shine a little light on what we all have in common. Sometimes this human stuff is slimy and pathetic—jealousy especially so—but better to feel it and talk about it and walk through it than to spend a lifetime being silently poisoned. Now I felt like I was getting somewhere, after all those weeks of emotionally swimming the English Channel, cold and afraid. Then I saw a documentary on TV about a couple with AIDS. And all the pieces of the solution finally came together. There was a lot of footage in that movie of ravaged bodies, the sorts of bodies we usually recoil from. One of the men in the couple had an emaciated back entirely purple with Kaposi’s. But once you, the viewer, got to know the spirit inside, you could see the beauty of that sick person lying under the mounds of quilts that friends had made. You could see the amazing fortitude of people going through horror with grace, looking right into the pit and seeing that this is what you’ve got, this disease, or maybe even this jealousy. So you do as well as you can with it. And this ravaged body or wounded psyche can and should still be cared for as softly and tenderly as possible. The more I wrote about it and the more I thought of the movie, the angrier I got at how often this writer friend mentioned her money to me, because that summer Sam and I had almost none, and she knew this. I kept writing about my childhood, about how often I had longed for what other girls had and for what other families seemed to be about. I taped Hillel’s line to the wall by my desk: “I get up. I walk. I fall down. Meanwhile, I keep dancing.” The way I dance is by writing. So I wrote about trying to pay closer attention to the world, about taking things less seriously, moving more slowly, stepping outside more often. Eventually what I was writing got funnier and compassion broke through, for me and also for my writer friend. And at this point I told her, as kindly as possible, that I needed a sabbatical from our friendship.

• From Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life (1994)

  But it actually doesn’t matter if he or she sees you break down, because you don’t have to be friendly with that person anymore. That person is a jerk. You double up therapy sessions for a few weeks until you’re back in the saddle, and then you ask someone else; someone you like much better. If you know for sure that some smart and civilized person loves your work, you can ask that person if she would be willing to look at a part of your novel or your latest short story. If this person writes, too, ask if she would like you to take a look at her draft. If she says no to both offers, pretend to be friendly, so she won’t think less of you than she already does. Then you can move into a trailer park near your therapist’s house until you’re well enough again to ask someone else. The second question my students ask about a writing partner is this: what if someone agrees to read and work on your stuff for you, and you have agreed to do the same for him, say, and it turns out that he says things about your work, even in the nicest possible tone of voice, that are totally negative and destructive? You find yourself devastated, betrayed. Here you’ve done this incredibly gutsy thing, shown someone your very heart and soul, and he doesn’t think it’s any good. He says how sorry he is that this is how he feels. Well, let me tell you this—I don’t think he is. I think destroying your work gave him real pleasure, pleasure he would never cop to, pleasure that is almost sexual in nature. I think you should get rid of this person immediately, even if you are married to him. No one should talk to you like this. If you write a long piece, and it is your first, and you are wondering if it’s publishable, and it isn’t, even by a long shot, someone should be able to tell you this in a way that is gentle yet not patronizing, so that you are encouraged—maybe not to pursue publication, but to pursue writing. Certainly this person might suggest you get a second opinion. But if he is too strident or adamant, ditch the sucker. Would you stand for someone talking this way to your children—for instance, telling them that they are not very talented at painting and shouldn’t even bother? Or that their poetry is not very interesting? Of course not. You’d want to go pay this person a little visit with your flamethrower. So why, if someone says something like this to you, would you want anything further to do with him? Why waste what little time you may have left with such scum?

• From The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  When Mom got home that evening, she looked in the refrigerator. "What happened to the stick of margarine?" she asked. "We ate it," I said. … "It was the only thing to eat in the whole house," I said. Raising my voice, I added, "I was hungry." Mom gave me a startled look. I'd broken one of our unspoken rules: We were always supposed to pretend our life was one long and incredibly fun adventure. She raised her hand, and I thought she was going to hit me, but then she sat down at the spool table and rested her head on her arms. Her shoulders started shaking. … "It's not my fault if you're hungry!" she shouted. "Don't blame me. Do you think I like living like this? Do you?"

• From The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  People buying jewelry were always happy, and even though Welch was a poor town, Becker’s Jewel Box had plenty of customers: older miners buying their wives a mother’s pin, a brooch with a birthstone for each of her children; teenage couples shopping for engagement rings, the girl giggling with excitement, the boy acting proud and manly. During the slow spells, Mr. Becker and I watched the Watergate hearings on a little black-and-white TV. Mr. Becker was captivated by John Dean’s wife, Maureen, who sat behind her husband when he was testifying and wore elegant clothes and pulled her blond hair back in a tight bun. “Hot damn, that’s one classy broad,” Mr. Becker would say. Sometimes, after watching Maureen Dean, Mr. Becker got so randy that he came behind me while I was cleaning the display case and rubbed up against my backside. I’d pull his hands off and walk away without saying a word, and that horndog would return to the television as if nothing had happened. When Mr. Becker went across the street to the Mountaineer Diner for lunch, he always took the key to the display case that held the diamond rings. If customers came in wanting to look at the rings, I had to run across the street to get him. Once he forgot to take the key, and when he returned, he made a big point of counting the rings in front of me. It was his way of letting me know he didn’t trust me in the slightest. One day after Mr. Becker had come back from lunch and ostentatiously checked the display cases, I was so furious that I looked around to see if there was anything in the entire darn store worth stealing. Necklaces, brooches, banjos—none of them did anything for me. And then the watch display caught my eye. I had always wanted a watch. Unlike diamonds, watches were practical. They were for people on the run, people with appointments to keep and schedules to meet. That was the kind of person I wanted to be. Dozens of watches ticked away in the counter behind the cash register. There was one in particular that made me ache. It had four different-colored bands—black, brown, blue, and white—so you could change your watchband to match your outfit. It had a price tag of $29.95, ten dollars short of a week’s salary. But if I wanted, it could be mine in an instant, and for free. The more I thought about that watch, the more it called to me. One day the woman who worked at the store Mr. Becker owned in War stopped by. Mr. Becker wanted her to give me some beauty tips. While she was showing me her different makeup applicators, the woman, who had stiff platinum hair and eyelashes tarred in mascara, told me I must be earning a truckload in commissions.