Anxiety

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 121 of 501 · 20 per page

• From Laura Middleton; Her Brother and Her Lover (1890)

  In such exquisite amusements a few weeks passed rapidly away without any interruption to our joys, when we were startled by learning from Laura that there was a derangement of the usual symptoms which she feared indicated pregnancy. This greatly alarmed us, for trusting to our youth we had had no fear on this subject. I lost no time in consulting an eminent London surgeon, but his reply was that the symptoms were usual in cases of pregnancy, but that they were not infallible signs of it, as they sometimes occurred from other causes. It was, however, obvious that some arrangement must be made to provide for the occurrence of the possible event. I, of course, told Laura that if it should turn out as she feared, we must make up our minds to run off together and, getting up a story of her having been previously privately married, keep out of the way until the noise of the affair blew over. This plan, however, did not meet her approbation. She said that whatever might really have been the case, everyone would at once say from the difference in our ages that she must have seduced me and that she would never be able to show her face again in society, and that moreover she could not think of inflicting such a penalty on me as to saddle me for life with a wife older than myself, when she had been as much to blame in the matter as I had. After a great deal of consideration I ventured to hint whether her best plan would not be to accept Sir Charles Tracy, marry him at once, and get the ceremony over without delay, so that if a child did come, there might be at least the lapse of six months to admit of the possibility of his being the father. I must here explain that Sir Charles had been an almost constant resident at the Hall ever since my arrival, and was evidently looked upon by the family as a suitor. He was a young man of about twenty-seven, of large fortune, tall, handsome, and well made, not particularly clever, but almost the best-tempered and most good-natured person I ever met. His object in remaining so long was quite obvious. Although she would never admit it, I had all along fancied that Laura liked him; but since I had become so intimate with her, she certainly had shown more coldness towards him than she did on my first arrival.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  CHAPTER 5 1 O n the Monday that followed Stephen’s first day out hunting she woke with something very like a weight on her chest; in less than two minutes she knew why this was—she was going to tea with the Antrims. Her relations with other children were peculiar, she thought so herself and so did the children; they could not define it and neither could Stephen, but there it was all the same. A high-spirited child she should have been popular, and yet she was not, a fact which she divined, and this made her feel ill at ease with her playmates, who in their turn felt ill at ease. She would think that the children were whispering about her, whispering and laughing for no apparent reason; but although this had happened on one occasion, it was not always happening as Stephen imagined. She was painfully hyper-sensitive at times, and she suffered accordingly. Of all the children that Stephen most dreaded, Violet and Roger Antrim took precedence; especially Roger, who was ten years old, and already full to the neck of male arrogance—he had just been promoted to Etons that winter, which added to his overbearing pride. Roger Antrim had round, brown eyes like his mother, and a short, straight nose that might one day be handsome; he was rather a thick-set, plump little boy, whose buttocks looked too large in a short Eton jacket, especially when he stuck his hands in his pockets and strutted, which he did very often. Roger was a bully; he bullied his sister, and would dearly have loved to bully Stephen; but Stephen nonplussed him, her arms were so strong, he could never wrench Stephen’s arms backwards like Violet’s; he could never make her cry or show any emotion when he pinched her, or tugged roughly at her new hair ribbon, and then Stephen would often beat him at games, a fact which he deeply resented. She could bowl at cricket much straighter than he could; she climbed trees with astonishing skill and prowess, and even if she did tear her skirts in the process it was obviously cheek for a girl to climb at all. Violet never climbed trees; she stood at the bottom admiring the courage of Roger. He grew to hate Stephen as a kind of rival, a kind of intruder into his especial province; he was always longing to take her down a peg, but being slow-witted he was foolish in his methods—no good daring Stephen, she responded at once, and usually went one better. As for Stephen, she loathed him, and her loathing was increased by a most humiliating consciousness of envy.

• From Saint Augustine (Penguin Lives) (1999)

  WHEN THE VISIGOTH leader Alaric captured the city of Rome in 410, a shock ran through the entire empire. Jerome wrote from Bethlehem: “Rome, capturer of the world, fell captive” (L 127.12). Though Alaric was a Christian (Arian) taking a Christian (Catholic) city, there was an ominous feeling that the world structure built by pagan Rome was disintegrating. Pagans claimed that Christians had destroyed the greatest human achievement ever contrived. Christians themselves, who had boasted that they saved whatever was good in ancient civilization, lifting it to new heights, now suffered a crisis of confidence. Catholics in and around Rome, uncertain of their fate under the Arians, poured into Africa, bringing tales of breakdown at the center of things (though both Christian emperors, of the East and of the West, still ruled, from their courts at Ravenna and Constantinople). A need for new discipline and toughness was felt, to which Augustine would respond, showing a dark side to his teaching on the importance of the human will. While working on his three concurrent masterpieces at the beginning of the fifth century, Augustine had kept at his ordinary tasks—preaching, church reform (at frequent councils called by Aurelius in Carthage), and endless controversy with Donatists. Though Catholics were still asking for public discussion as late as 403, an increase in Donatist violence led Stilicho—the imperial minister at Ravenna who had been harsh on the Donatists since their participation in Gildo’s African revolt—to issue an Edict of Unity in 405, punishing Donatists under the long-existing laws against heretics. Augustine had misgivings about Stilicho’s policy, but he enforced it in Hippo, and his own attitude toward disorder and dissent was hardening.

• From The Girls (2016)

  On the way back to the ranch, Suzanne made an announcement. “Time for a little trip,” she said, loudly recruiting Donna into the plan. I liked knowing she was thinking of me, trying to placate me. I noticed a new desperation around her after Mitch. I was more conscious of her attentions, of how to keep her eyes on me. “Where?” I asked. “You’ll see,” Suzanne said, catching Donna’s gaze. “It’s like our medicine, like a little cure for what ails you.” “Ooh,” Donna said, leaning forward. She seemed to have understood immediately what Suzanne was talking about. “Yes, yes, yes.” “We need a house,” Suzanne said. “That’s the first thing. An empty house.” She flashed a look at me. “Your mom’s gone, right?” I didn’t know what they were going to do. But I recognized a tinge of alarm, even then, and had the sense to spare my own home. I shifted in the seat. “She’s there all day.” Suzanne made a disappointed hum. But I was already thinking of another house that might be empty. And I offered it up to them, easily. I gave Suzanne directions, watching the roads grow more and more familiar. When Suzanne stopped the car and Donna got out and smeared mud on the first two numbers of the license plate, I only worried a little. I gathered an unfamiliar braveness, a sense of pushing past limitations, and tried to give myself up to the uncertainty. I was locked into my body in a way that was unfamiliar. It was the knowledge, perhaps, that I would do whatever Suzanne wanted me to do. That was a strange thought—that there was just this banal sense of being moved along the bright river of whatever was going to happen. That it could be as easy as this. Suzanne was driving erratically, rolling through a stop sign and gazing away from the road for long stretches of time, caught in a private daydream. She turned onto my own road. The gates like a familiar string of beads, one following the other. “There,” I said, and Suzanne slowed the car. The windows of the Dutton house were plain with curtains, the flagstone path cutting a line to the front door. No car in the carport, just a glisten of oil on the asphalt. Teddy’s bike wasn’t in the yard—he was gone, too. The house looked empty. —Suzanne parked the car down the road a little bit, mostly out of sight, while Donna went briskly to the side yard. I trailed Suzanne, but I was hanging back slightly, shuffling my sandals through the dirt. Suzanne turned to me. “Are you coming or what?” I laughed, but I’m sure she saw the effort it took. “I just don’t understand what we’re doing.” She cocked her head and smiled. “Do you really care?” I was scared and couldn’t say why. I mocked myself for letting my mind range furiously to the very worst thing.

• From The Girls (2016)

  Or that’s how Frank introduced himself, laughing, a scud of spit in the corner of his mouth. “Pleased to meet you, darlin’,” he said the first night, his big arm reining me toward him in a clumsy hug. My mother was giddy and a little drunk, as if life were a world where nuggets of gold were hidden in streambeds or clustered at cliff bases, picked off as easily as peaches. I had heard my mother tell Sal that Frank was still married but wouldn’t be for long. I didn’t know if that was true. Frank didn’t seem the type to leave his family. He wore a shirt with creamy buttons, peonies embroidered in raised red thread on the shoulders. My mother was acting nervous, touching her hair, slipping her fingernail between her front teeth. She looked from me to Frank. “Evie’s a very smart girl,” she said. She was talking too loud. Still, it was nice to hear her say it. “She’ll really blossom at Catalina.” This was the boarding school I’d attend, though September seemed years away. “Big brains,” Frank boomed. “Can’t go wrong there, can you?” I didn’t know if he was joking or not, and my mother didn’t seem to know either. We ate a casserole in silence in the dining room, and I picked out the blats of tofu and built a pile on my plate. I watched my mother decide not to say anything. Frank was good-looking, even if his shirt was strange, too fussy and feminine, and he made my mother laugh. He was not as handsome as my father, but still. She kept reaching out to touch his arm with her fingertips. “Fourteen years old, huh?” Frank said. “Bet you have a ton of boyfriends.” Adults always teased me about having boyfriends, but there was an age where it was no longer a joke, the idea that boys might actually want you. “Oh, heaps,” I said, and my mother perked to attention, hearing the coldness in my voice. Frank didn’t seem to notice, smiling widely at my mother, patting her hand. She was smiling, too, in a masklike way, her eyes bouncing from me to him across the table. Frank had gold mines in Mexico. “No regulations down there,” he said. “Cheap labor. It’s pretty much a sure thing.” “How much gold have you found?” I asked. “So far, I mean.” “Well, once all the equipment is in place, I’ll be finding a ton.” He drank from a wineglass, his fingers leaving ghosts of grease. My mother went soft, in his glance; her shoulders relaxing, her lips parting. She was young looking that night. I had a queer twinge of motherly feeling for her, and the discomfort of it made me wince. “Maybe I’ll take you down there,” Frank said. “Both of you. Little trip to Mexico. Flowers in your hair.” He burped under his breath, swallowing it, and my mother blushed, wine moving in her glass. My mother liked this man.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  But Mary could see that she was far from all right; the warm weather was proving of little avail, even care and good food and sunshine and rest seemed unable to ease that incessant coughing. ‘You ought to see a specialist at once,’ she told Barbara rather sharply one morning. But Barbara shook her head yet again: ‘Don’t, Mary—don’t, please . . . you’ll be frightening Jamie.’ 2After their return to Paris in the autumn, Jamie sometimes joined the nocturnal parties; going rather grimly from bar to bar, and drinking too much of the crème-de-menthe that reminded her of the bull’s eyes at Beedles. She had never cared for these parties before, but now she was clumsily trying to escape, for a few hours at least, from the pain of existence. Barbara usually stayed at home or spent the evening with Stephen and Mary. But Stephen and Mary would not always be there, for now they also went out fairly often; and where was there to go to except the bars? Nowhere else could two women dance together without causing comment and ridicule, without being looked upon as freaks, argued Mary. So rather than let the girl go without her, Stephen would lay aside her work—she had recently started to write her fourth novel. Sometimes, it is true, their friends came to them, a less sordid and far less exhausting business; but even at their own house the drink was too free: ‘We can’t be the only couple to refuse to give people a brandy and soda,’ said Mary, ‘Valérie’s parties are awfully dull; that’s because she’s allowed herself to grow cranky!’ And thus, very gradually just at first, Mary’s finer perceptions began to coarsen. 3The months passed, and now more than a year had slipped by, yet Stephen’s novel remained unfinished; for Mary’s face stood between her and her work—surely the mouth and the eyes had hardened? Still unwilling to let Mary go without her, she dragged wearily round to the bars and cafés, observing with growing anxiety that Mary now drank as did all the others—not too much perhaps, but quite enough to give her a cheerful outlook on existence. The next morning she was often deeply depressed, in the grip of a rather tearful reaction: ‘It’s too beastly—why do we do it?’ she would ask. And Stephen would answer: ‘God knows I don’t want to, but I won’t let you go to such places without me. Can’t we give it all up? It’s appallingly sordid!’

• From The Master and Margarita (1966)

  The apartment occupied by the late Berlioz, as well as by the Yalta-visiting Likhodeev, was empty, and in the study wax seals hung peacefully on the bookcases, unbroken by anyone. With that they left Sadovaya, and there also departed with them the perplexed and dispirited secretary of the house management, Bedsornev. In the evening Nikanor Ivanovich was delivered to Stravinsky’s clinic. There he became so agitated that an injection, made according to Stravinsky’s recipe, had to be given him, and only after midnight did Nikanor Ivanovich fall asleep in room 119, every now and then emitting a heavy, painful moan. But the longer he slept, the easier his sleep became. He stopped tossing and groaning, his breathing became easy and regular, and he was left alone. Then Nikanor Ivanovich was visited by a dream, at the basis of which undoubtedly lay the experience of that day. It began with Nikanor Ivanovich seeing as it were some people with golden trumpets in their hands leading him, and very solemnly, to a big lacquered door. At this door his companions played as it were a flourish for Nikanor Ivanovich, and then from the sky a resounding bass said merrily: ‘Welcome, Nikanor Ivanovich, turn over your currency!’ Exceedingly astonished, Nikanor Ivanovich saw a black loudspeaker above him. Then he found himself for some reason in a theatre house, where crystal chandeliers blazed under a gilded ceiling and Quinquet lamps 2 on the walls. Everything was as it ought to be in a small-sized but very costly theatre. There was a stage closed off by a velvet curtain, its dark cerise background spangled, as if with stars, with oversized gold pieces, there was a prompter’s box, and there was even an audience. What surprised Nikanor Ivanovich was that this audience was all of the same sex—male—and all for some reason bearded. Besides that, it was striking that there were no seats in the theatre, and the audience was all sitting on the floor, splendidly polished and slippery. Abashed in this new and big company, Nikanor Ivanovich, after a brief hesitation, followed the general example and sat down on the parquet Turkish-fashion, huddled between some stalwart, bearded redhead and another citizen, pale and quite overgrown. None of the sitters paid any attention to the newly arrived spectator. Here the soft ringing of a bell was heard, the lights in the house went out, and the curtain opened to reveal a lighted stage with an armchair, a little table on which stood a golden bell, and a solid black velvet backdrop. An artiste came out from the wings in an evening jacket, smoothly shaven, his hair neatly parted, young and with very pleasant features. The audience in the house livened up, and everyone turned towards the stage.

• From Saint Augustine (Penguin Lives) (1999)

  RETURNED TO MILAN by the beginning of Lent, Augustine was no doubt anxious to mix again with his fellow philosophers and to find out how his dialogues, sent back from Cassiciacum, had been received. While he was on a roll, he began an extension of the Dialogues with Myself. Now that he could talk again with Simplician and Theodore, he felt he could prove that the soul is immortal. There was no scriptural commentary in the dialogues from Cassiciacum, a fact that has been used to indicate that Augustine’s conversion was less to Christ than to Plotinus. But it would have been presumptuous for him to speak out on the faith before being instructed in its reserved mysteries, the disciplina arcani. And his real exposure to the symbolic reading of Scripture came with Ambrose’s Lenten instruction to the candidates (competentes) for baptism—a disciplined course all Christians went through at the time. All through Lent, the candidates went unbathed, wore penitential hairskins, and were assigned a special place in church. We have two versions of the Ambrosian instruction on baptism—which traced prefigurings of this spiritual “bath” to Noah’s flood, to the passage of the Red Sea, to healings at the pool of Siloam; to water that Moses sweetened, or water that floated Elijah’s axe (Sacraments 2.2; Mysteries 1.3). In this period, the candidates were given, by oral recitation, the Creed and the Lord’s Prayer for memorizing. On Thursday of Holy Week they were allowed to bathe, then submitted to physical inspection (S 216.11). On the eve of Easter, they prayed through the night, renounced Satan at dawn, turned toward the sun, and were conducted to the octagonal pool we can still see, in a tunnel under the cathedral plaza of Milan (O’Donnell 3.106–7). There are few places in Europe more charged with historical significance than this baptistry where Ambrose, the creator of structured disciplines for the medieval Church, received as a Christian Augustine, the creator of the theology that would resound in that Church. 5. Ostia: 387 BAPTIZED IN THE SPRING, Augustine headed south in the summer, traveling now in humbler state than on his trip up, with a reduced company trying to reach Ostia before winter shut down the sea lanes back to Africa. But when they arrived there, they found the Mediterranean sealed off by war, not winter. The forces of both emperors, Eastern and Western, were finally arrayed against the usurper Maximus, whose court in Trier Ambrose had visited during Augustine’s time in Milan. While they were stranded in Ostia, Monnica was taken ill and died. I have not said much about Monnica so far because too much is often made of her role in Augustine’s life. Rebecca West’s indictment of her is well known:

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Violet was plump, pert and adolescent, and had lately insisted on putting her hair up. She liked men, who in consequence always liked her, for like begets like when it comes to the sexes, and Violet was full of what people call: ‘allure,’ or in simpler language, of sexual attraction. Roger was home for Christmas from Sandiest, so that he would be there to assist his mother. He was now nearly twenty, a good-looking youth with a tiny moustache which he tentatively fingered. He assumed the grand air of the man of the world who has actually weathered about nineteen summers. He was hoping to join his regiment quite soon, which greatly augmented his self-importance. Could Mrs. Antrim have ignored Stephen Gordon’s existence, she would almost certainly have done so. She disliked the girl; she had always disliked her; what she called Stephen’s ‘queerness’ aroused her suspicion—she was never quite clear as to what she suspected, but felt sure that it must be something outlandish: ‘A young woman of her age to ride like a man, I call it preposterous!’ declared Mrs. Antrim. It can safely be said that Stephen at eighteen had in no way outgrown her dread of the Antrims; there was only one member of that family who liked her, she knew, and that was the small, hen-pecked Colonel. He liked her because, a fine horseman himself, he admired her skill and her courage out hunting. ‘It’s a pity she’s so tall, of course—’ he would grumble, ‘but she does know a horse and how to stick on one. Now my children might have been brought up at Margate, they’re just about fitted to ride the beach donkeys!’ But Colonel Antrim would not count at the dance; indeed in his own house he very seldom counted. Stephen would have to endure Mrs. Antrim and Violet—and then Roger was home from Sandiest. Their antagonism had never quite died, perhaps because it was too fundamental. Now they covered it up with a cloak of good manners, but these two were still enemies at heart, and they knew it. No, Stephen did not want to go to that dance, though she went in order to please her mother. Nervous, awkward and apprehensive, Stephen arrived at the Antrims that night, little thinking that Fate, the most expert of tricksters, was waiting to catch her just round the corner.

• From The Girls (2016)

  “Come where?” she said, her voice even. “Wherever you’re going,” I said. “I know you’re going somewhere.” The teasing lilt. “Russell didn’t ask you to go.” “But I want to,” I said. “Please.” Suzanne didn’t say yes, exactly. But she slowed enough so I could match her stride, a pace new to me, purposeful. “You should change,” Suzanne said. I looked down, trying to discern what had offended her: my cotton shirt, my long skirt. “Into dark clothes,” she said. 14The car ride was as slurred over and unbelievable as a long illness. Guy at the wheel, Helen and Donna beside him. Suzanne sat in the backseat, staring out the window, and I was right next to her. The night had dropped deep and dark, the car passing under the streetlights. Their sulfur glow gliding across Suzanne’s face, a stupor occupying the others. Sometimes it seemed like I never really left the car. That a version of me is always there. Russell stayed at the ranch that night. Which didn’t even register with me as strange. Suzanne and the others were his familiars, loosed out into the world—it had always been that way. Guy like his second in a duel, Suzanne and Helen and Donna not hesitating. Roos was supposed to have gone, too, but she didn’t—she claimed, later, that she’d gotten a bad feeling and stayed behind, but I don’t know if that is true. Did Russell hold her back, sensing a stubborn virtue in her that might yoke her to the real world? Roos with Nico, a child of her own. Roos, who did become the main witness against the others, taking the stand in a white dress with her hair parted straight down the middle. I don’t know if Suzanne told Russell I was coming—no one ever answered that question. The car radio was on, playing the laughably foreign soundtrack to other people’s lives. Other people who were getting ready to sleep, mothers who were scraping the last shreds of chicken dinner into the garbage. Helen was jawing away about a whale beaching down in Pismo and did we think it was true that it was a sign a big earthquake was gonna happen? Getting up on her knees then, like the idea thrilled her. “We’d have to go to the desert,” she said. No one was taking her bait: a hush had fallen over the car. Donna muttered something, and Helen set her jaw. “Can you open the window?” Suzanne said. “I’m cold,” Helen whined in her baby voice. “Come on,” Suzanne said, pounding the back of the seat. “I’m fucking melting.” Helen rolled the window down and the car filled with air, flavored with exhaust. The salt of the nearby ocean. And there I was among them. Russell had changed, things had soured, but I was with Suzanne. Her presence corralled any stray worries. Like the child who believes that her mother’s bedtime vigil will ward off monsters.

• From The Surprising Lives of Christian Saints (2023)

  4. Perpetua and Felicity: Mothers and Martyrs Christians were made uniquely vulnerable under the rule of the emperor Septimius Severus, a general who had assumed the imperial throne during a period of turmoil. Severus sought to establish his legitimacy by promoting his own cult alongside that of the Egyptian god Serapis. He also outlawed conversion to Christianity or Judaism, possibly seeing them as competitors. The ambitious Roman governor, Hilarian, sponsored games to celebrate the birthday of the emperor’s son. In Carthage, with a long history of self- sacrifice and even human sacrifice, offering blood tribute may have been especially important. Hilarian probably ordered the arrest of Christian converts for execution as part of the festival. We don’t know how the catechumens were identified, but they were immediately placed under house arrest. During this time, the prisoners underwent baptism, completing the group’s conversion and allowing Hilarian to bring the full weight of the new law into effect. They were moved to a prison and joined by Saturus, a leader of the Christian community and voluntary martyr. The group’s trial was held in the forum, with Hilarian presiding. Perpetua’s father made an impassioned plea, holding her son and begging her to think of the child. When she refused to listen and her father continued to importune her, the Passion tells us that Hilarian had him beaten, which greatly distressed Perpetua. For some scholars, that event calls into question the true status of Perpetua’s family, as a man of higher status would never have been beaten in open 28

• From Austerlitz (2001)

  When we wake up tomorrow, she said, I shall wish you every happiness, and it will be like telling a machine working by some unknown mechanism that I hope it will run well. Can’t you tell me the reason, she asked, said Austerlitz, why you remain so unapproachable? Why, she said, have you been like a pool of frozen water ever since we came here? Why do I see your lips opening as if you were about to say something, maybe even cry out loud, and then I hear not the slightest sound? Why did you never unpack when we arrived, always preferring to live out of a rucksack, as it were? We stood there a couple of paces apart, like two actors on stage. The color of Marie’s eyes changed as the light dimmed. And once again I tried to explain to her and to myself what incomprehensible feelings had been weighing on me over the last few days; how I kept thinking, like a madman, that there were mysterious signs and portents all around me here; how it even seemed to me as if the silent facades of the buildings knew something ominous about me, how I had always believed I must be alone, and in spite of my longing for her I now felt it more than ever before. But it isn’t true, said Marie, it isn’t true that we need absence and loneliness. It isn’t true. It’s only in your mind. You are afraid of I don’t know what. You have always been rather remote, of course, I could tell that, but now it’s as if you stood on a threshold and you dared not step over it. That evening in Marienbad, said Austerlitz, I could not admit to myself how right everything Marie said was, but today I know why I felt obliged to turn away when anyone came too close to me, I know that I thought this turning away made me safe, and that at the same time I saw myself transformed into a frightful and hideous creature, a man beyond the pale. Dusk was gathering as we walked back through the park. Dark trees and bushes lined both sides of the white sandy path curving ahead of us, and Marie, whom I lost entirely soon afterwards, by my own fault, was murmuring something

• From The Master and Margarita (1966)

  So you, too, can just vanish away along with your burnt notebook and dried-up rose! Sit here on the bench alone and entreat him to set you free, to let you breathe the air, to go from your memory!’ Her face white, Margarita came back to the bench. The redhead was looking at her, narrowing his eyes. ‘I don’t understand any of this,’ Margarita began quietly. ‘It’s possible to find out about the pages . . . get in, snoop around . . . You bribed Natasha, right? But how could you find out my thoughts?’ She scowled painfully and added: ‘Tell me, who are you? From which institution?’ ‘What a bore . . .’ the redhead muttered and then said aloud, ‘I beg your pardon, didn’t I tell you that I’m not from any institution? Sit down, please.’ Margarita obeyed unquestioningly, but even so, as she was sitting down, she asked once more: ‘Who are you?’ ‘Well, all right, my name is Azazello, but anyhow that tells you nothing.’ ‘And you won’t tell me how you found out about the pages and about my thoughts?’ ‘No, I won’t,’ Azazello replied drily. ‘But do you know anything about him?’ Margarita whispered imploringly. ‘Well, suppose I do.’ ‘I implore you, tell me only one thing . . . is he alive? . . . Don’t torment me!’ ‘Well, he’s alive, he’s alive,’ Azazello responded reluctantly. ‘Oh, God! . . .’ ‘Please, no excitements and exclamations,’ Azazello said, frowning. ‘Forgive me, forgive me,’ the now obedient Margarita murmured, ‘of course, I got angry with you. But, you must agree, when a woman is invited in the street to pay a visit somewhere . . . I have no prejudices, I assure you,’ Margarita smiled joylessly, ‘but I never see any foreigners, I have no wish to associate with them . . . and, besides, my husband . . . my drama is that I’m living with someone I don’t love . . . but I consider it an unworthy thing to spoil his life . . . I’ve never seen anything but kindness from him . . .’ Azazello heard out this incoherent speech with visible boredom and said sternly: ‘I beg you to be silent for a moment.’ Margarita obediently fell silent. ‘The foreigner to whom I’m inviting you is not dangerous at all. And not a single soul will know of this visit. That I can guarantee you.’ ‘And what does he need me for?’ Margarita asked insinuatingly. ‘You’ll find that out later.’ ‘I understand . . .

• From The History of Christianity: From the Disciples to the Dawn of the Reformation (2012)

  260 Lecture 36: The Ever-adapting Religion fresh translations of the Bible and the establishment of Christian institutions in distant lands. • Between the 16 th and 20 th centuries, therefore, Christianity became a truly “world religion,” with adherents in every land and language. o As it expanded, Christianity was increasingly required to engage questions of cultural diversity. Such questions, in turn, raised concerns about the possibility of compromising Christianity’s identity or the use of the Christian mission as an instrument of European cultural hegemony. o These questions remain open, even as Christianity faces more severe challenges that have been posed by modernity. Perhaps the greatest challenge of all, in light of the greatest part of Christian history, is this: How would Christianity deal with the end of the Constantinian era, when the church was decisively severed from its role as glue to the state if not society and when the state could once again even be hostile to this religion? The Limits of Historical Knowing • It is important to recognize that this “grand historical narrative” also misses a great deal of “what really happened” in the Christian past. As we noted in the first lecture of this course, there are intrinsic limits to our historical knowing. • Our ability to talk about this religion as a historical entity depends a great deal on Christianity’s involvement in the political order, precisely because it is in the realm of the political that chronology, documentation, and major events are most in evidence. • When Christianity has lacked clear political involvement or when historical evidence is not available, little can be said about the religion in those times or places. • There is every reason to believe, however, that Christianity thrived at the level of peoples’ lives, even when little or nothing of historical significant rose to the level of analysis.

• From The History of Christianity: From the Disciples to the Dawn of the Reformation (2012)

  48 Lecture 7: The Unpopular Cult—Persecution o Even when a cult enjoyed imperial recognition or official favor, it could be the target of local resentment and harassment. Ancient people were no less prone than we are to fear and resent that which is strange. • Two examples preceding Christianity show such premises at work and help explain the subsequent experience of Christ-believers when they became sufficiently numerous to be noticed by outsiders. o Although Judaism was granted imperial recognition as a national religion—and reciprocated by offering sacrifices and prayers for the emperor—there are instances of its being persecuted. o For example, the Maccabean books show that resistance to syncretism under Antiochus IV Epiphanes in Palestine led to executions, most famously that of the aged Eleazar and of the seven Maccabean brothers with their mother. Philo tells us of anti-Semitism in Alexandria that expressed itself in local riots against the Jews, requiring an appeal to the emperor for assistance. o Even among non-Jews, philosophers who challenged traditional beliefs or who withdrew from religious practices, such as the Epicureans, were suspected of subversion. Individual philosophers who challenged social mores or popular religious tenets were sometimes put to death (Socrates and Zeno) or exiled (Dio of Prusa, Epictetus, Seneca) as “enemies of the Roman order.” Early Christian Vulnerabilities • In its first centuries of its existence, Christianity was particularly vulnerable to attack from both Jews and Gentiles. It was sociologically underdetermined and ideologically oppositional. o As an intentional community, the Christian cult drew from both Jews and Greeks but had no secure place in the world. It did not meet in established temples or synagogues but in households.

• From The Girls (2016)

  His grandson rents it to us.” To make money, she explained, they took care of the llamas and worked for the farmer next door, harvesting lettuce with their pocketknives and selling his haul at the farmer’s market. Sunflowers and jars of marmalade gluey with pectin. “Three bucks an hour. Not bad,” Donna said. “But money gets tight.” I nodded, like I understood such concerns. I watched a young boy, four or five, hurtle himself at Roos, crash-landing into her leg. He was badly sunburned, his hair bleached white, and he seemed too old to still be wearing a diaper. I assumed the boy was Roos’s child. Was Russell the father? The quick thought of sex raised a queasy rush in my chest. The boy lifted his head, like a dog roused from sleep, and looked at me with a bored, suspicious squint. Donna leaned into me. “Come meet Russell,” she said. “You’ll love him, I swear.” “She’ll meet him at the party,” Suzanne said, cutting into our conversation. I hadn’t noticed her approach: her closeness startled me. She handed a sack of potatoes to me and took up a cardboard box in her arms. “We’re gonna dump this stuff in the kitchen, first. For the feast.” Donna pouted, but I followed Suzanne. “Bye, dolly,” she called, frittering her thin fingers and laughing, not unkindly. —I followed Suzanne’s dark hair through a jumble of strangers. The ground was uneven, a disorienting slope. It was the smell, too, a heavy smokiness. I was flattered Suzanne had enlisted my help, like it confirmed I was one of them. There were young people milling around in bare feet or boots, their hair drifty and sun lightened. I overheard feverish invocations of the solstice party. I didn’t know it yet, but it was rare for the ranch, all this efficient work. Girls wore their best thrift store rags and carried instruments in their arms as gently as babies, the sun catching the steel of a guitar and fractaling into hot diamonds of light. The tambourines rattling tuneless in their arms. “Those fuckers bite me all night,” Suzanne said, swatting at one of the vicious horseflies that droned around us. “I wake up all bloody from scratching.” Beyond the house, the land was scarred with boulders and the filtery oaks, a few hollow cars in a state of disrepair. I liked Suzanne but couldn’t shake the feeling that I was struggling to keep pace with her: it was an age when I often conflated liking people with feeling nervous around them. A boy with no shirt and a chunky silver belt buckle catcalled when we passed. “What you got there? A solstice present?” “Shut up,” Suzanne said. The boy smiled, raffish, and I tried to smile back. He was young, his hair long and dark, a medieval droop to his face I took as romantic. Handsome with the feminine duskiness of a cinematic villain, though I’d find out he was just from Kansas. This was Guy.

• From The Master and Margarita (1966)

  He did not rejoice in the spring flooding of the Dnieper, when, overflowing the islands by the lower bank, the water merged with the horizon. He did not rejoice in the staggeringly beautiful view which opened out from the foot of the monument to Prince Vladimir. He did not take delight in patches of sunlight playing in springtime on the brick paths of Vladimir’s Hill. He wanted none of it, he wanted only one thing—to move to Moscow. Advertising in the newspapers about exchanging an apartment on Institutsky Street in Kiev for smaller quarters in Moscow brought no results. No takers were found, or if they occasionally were, their offers were disingenuous. The telegram staggered Maximilian Andreevich. This was a moment it would be sinful to let slip. Practical people know that such moments do not come twice. In short, despite all obstacles, he had to succeed in inheriting his nephew’s apartment on Sadovaya. Yes, it was difficult, very difficult, but these difficulties had to be overcome at whatever cost. The experienced Maximilian Andreevich knew that the first and necessary step towards that had to be the following: he must get himself registered, at least temporarily, as the tenant of his late nephew’s three rooms. On Friday afternoon, Maximilian Andreevich walked through the door of the room which housed the management of no. 302-bis on Sadovaya Street in Moscow. In the narrow room, with an old poster hanging on the wall illustrating in several pictures the ways of resuscitating people who have drowned in the river, an unshaven, middle-aged man with anxious eyes sat in perfect solitude at a wooden table. ‘May I see the chairman?’ the industrial economist inquired politely, taking off his hat and putting his suitcase on a vacant chair. This seemingly simple little question for some reason so upset the seated man that he even changed countenance. Looking sideways in anxiety, he muttered unintelligibly that the chairman was not there. ‘Is he at home?’ asked Poplavsky. ‘I’ve come on the most urgent business.’ The seated man again replied quite incoherently, but all the same one could guess that the chairman was not at home. ‘And when will he be here?’ The seated man made no reply to this and looked with a certain anguish out the window. ‘Aha! . . .’ the intelligent Poplavsky said to himself and inquired about the secretary. The strange man at the table even turned purple with strain and said, again unintelligibly, that the secretary was not there either . . . he did not know when he would be back, and . . . that the secretary was sick . . . ‘Aha! . . .’

• From The Master and Margarita (1966)

  And both men rose to meet the postwoman. This time the telegram contained the words: ‘Thank you confirmation send five hundred urgently criminal investigation my name tomorrow fly Moscow Likhodeev.’ ‘He’s lost his mind . . .’ Varenukha said weakly. Rimsky jingled his key, took money from the fireproof safe, counted out five hundred roubles, rang the bell, handed the messenger the money, and sent him to the telegraph office. ‘Good heavens, Grigory Danilovich,’ Varenukha said, not believing his eyes, ‘in my opinion you oughtn’t to send the money.’ ‘It’ll come back,’ Rimsky replied quietly, ‘but he’ll have a hard time explaining this little picnic.’ And he added, indicating the briefcase to Varenukha: ‘Go, Ivan Savelyevich, don’t delay.’ And Varenukha ran out of the office with the briefcase. He went down to the ground floor, saw the longest line at the box office, found out from the box-office girl that she expected to sell out within the hour, because the public was simply pouring in since the additional poster had been put up, told the girl to earmark and hold thirty of the best seats in the gallery and the stalls, popped out of the box office, shook off importunate pass-seekers as he ran, and dived into his little office to get his cap. At that moment the telephone rattled. ‘Yes!’ Varenukha shouted. ‘Ivan Savelyevich?’ the receiver inquired in a most repulsive nasal voice. ‘He’s not in the theatre!’ Varenukha was shouting, but the receiver interrupted him at once: ‘Don’t play the fool, Ivan Savelyevich, just listen. Do not take those telegrams anywhere or show them to anyone.’ ‘Who is this?’ Varenukha bellowed. ‘Stop these jokes, citizen! You’ll be found out at once! What’s your number?’ ‘Varenukha,’ the same nasty voice returned, ‘do you understand Russian? Don’t take the telegrams anywhere.’ ‘Ah, so you won’t stop?’ the administrator cried furiously. ‘Look out, then! You’re going to pay for it!’ He shouted some other threat, but fell silent, because he sensed that no one was listening to him any longer in the receiver. Here it somehow began to grow dark very quickly in his little office. Varenukha ran out, slammed the door behind him, and rushed through the side entrance into the summer garden. The administrator was agitated and full of energy. After the insolent phone call he had no doubts that it was a band of hooligans playing nasty tricks, and that these tricks were connected with the disappearance of Likhodeev. The administrator was choking with the desire to expose the malefactors, and, strange as it was, the anticipation of something enjoyable was born in him. It happens that way when a man strives to become the centre of attention, to bring sensational news somewhere. In the garden the wind blew in the administrator’s face and flung sand in his eyes, as if blocking his way, as if cautioning him.

• From The Master and Margarita (1966)

  After the injection, Nikanor Ivanovich felt better and fell asleep without any dreams. But, thanks to his cries, alarm was communicated to room 120, where the patient woke up and began looking for his head, and to room 118, where the unknown master became restless and wrung his hands in anguish, looking at the moon, remembering the last bitter autumn night of his life, a strip of light under the basement door, and uncurled hair. From room 118, the alarm flew by way of the balcony to Ivan, and he woke up and began to weep. But the doctor quickly calmed all these anxious, sorrowing heads, and they began to fall asleep. Ivan was the last to become oblivious, as dawn was already breaking over the river. After the medicine, which suffused his whole body, calm came like a wave and covered him. His body grew lighter, his head basked in the warm wind of reverie. He fell asleep, and the last waking thing he heard was the pre-dawn chirping of birds in the woods. But they soon fell silent, and he began dreaming that the sun was already going down over Bald Mountain, and the mountain was cordoned off by a double cordon . . . CHAPTER 16: The Execution, THE MASTER AND MARGARITA CHAPTER 16 The Execution The sun was already going down over Bald Mountain, and the mountain was cordoned off by a double cordon. The cavalry ala that had cut across the procurator’s path around noon came trotting up to the Hebron gate of the city. Its way had already been prepared. The infantry of the Cappadocian cohort had pushed the conglomeration of people, mules and camels to the sides, and the ala, trotting and raising white columns of dust in the sky, came to an intersection where two roads met: the south road leading to Bethlehem, and the north-west road to Jaffa. The ala raced down the north-west road. The same Cappadocians were strung out along the sides of the road, and in good time had driven to the sides of it all the caravans hastening to the feast in Yershalaim. Crowds of pilgrims stood behind the Cappadocians, having abandoned their temporary striped tents, pitched right on the grass. Going on for about a half-mile, the ala caught up with the second cohort of the Lightning legion and, having covered another half-mile, was the first to reach the foot of Bald Mountain. Here they dismounted. The commander broke the ala up into squads, and they cordoned off the whole foot of the small hill, leaving open only the way up from the Jaffa road. After some time, the ala was joined at the hill by the second cohort, which climbed one level higher and also encircled the hill in a wreath.

• From From the Streets to the Sheets: Noire's Urban Erotic Quickies (2007)

  Pretty found the antique mirror again and tightened his tie. He pounded his braids. “Of course you run this. I don’t doubt that.” “Well, have a drink, Jarvis.” He walked back toward the bar. He held up an empty glass. “What do you drink?” “Henny.” Mr. Patterson’s laugh was full of pity. He not only looked down on Pretty’s apprehension to drink, he looked down on his choice of beverage. He needed a go-getter, but Pretty wasn’t biting. He needed to get to the crux of this black man. “Who drinks Henny, Jarvis?” Pretty’s tone was defensive. “The brothers I hang with.” “The brothers you hang with?” He poured Pretty a drink. “Do the brothers you hang with drink the good stuff?” Pretty accepted the beverage and put it to his nose. “Is this the good stuff?” “Taste it.” Pretty put it to his mouth and before he took a sip, Mr. Patterson interrupted, “Toast first, Jarvis.” He held his glass in the air. Pretty’s glass made contact with Mr. Patterson’s. Mr. Patterson continued, “Let’s toast to a proposition you cannot turn down, Jarvis.” Pretty remained silent and took a huge gulp. He gagged, choked, and spit out the remains that didn’t go down. “Damn! What is this shit?” Mr. Patterson laughed and handed him a napkin. “Wipe up your mess, Jarvis.” He took a sip of his own and uttered, “You gotta crawl before you can walk, son.” Pretty wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “What is this?” Mr. Patterson held his glass in the air. “This, my friend, is the good stuff.” He took another sip. “This is Johnny Walker Black. Thirty dollars a shot at the bar.” “Well it tastes like crap.” “Everything tastes like crap until you get used to it. This warms the throat and soothes the soul, Jarvis.” He put his glass down and offered Pretty a seat. “You ready?” Pretty took his seat. “I have a great deal for you, Jarvis.” He closed his eyes and calculated with silence. He snapped himself out of his thoughts and continued, “I am willing to pay you three thousand dollars. Can you use three thousand dollars?” This got Pretty’s attention. His back stiffened. “Yes.” His eyebrow shot up. He eased back and looked toward the door. “What do I have to do?” Mr. Patterson pressed the intercom. “Can you send the party in, Ms. Randolph?” The secretary answered politely. Pretty readied himself for anything. He sat on edge, his weight rested on his toes. He interlocked his hands and waited. The door opened slowly. Pretty’s hands went to his head. He twisted the ends of his braids and tapped his foot. He began to sweat. Mr. Patterson grinned boastfully as he stood and extended his hand. His voice brimmed with pride. “This, Jarvis, is my wife. Tamanda Patterson.”