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.

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• From Macho Sluts (1988)

  The blows began to sting, and I put my hand up to ward them off. She grabbed my wrist. “What happened to all that sweet submission, huh? You promised to do anything for me, remember? I do. You owe me, honey.” She got out, came around to my door, and dragged me out of the car. Tugging on the scarf, she said, “Heel,” and headed for her door. I almost stumbled, then recovered my footing and followed her. I couldn’t guess where we were going. All I could see were storefronts. But she stopped in front of an iron grating and took out her keys. “No neighbors,” she told me with a grin. “It took me three months to find this place. I couldn’t afford to soundproof my last apartment, and I got kicked out for making too much noise. The rent is cheap, too.” Nobody could hear us? I felt a twinge of alarm. I hardly knew her. Anything could happen. How could I trust her? Because she never once showed any sign of doubting herself, something in me responded. There are plenty of people I’ve known for years that I’d never consider allowing to tie me up. Who knows why I trusted her and not them? It was an arbitrary decision, after all, and one perhaps not totally in my control. She held the grating open behind her. We climbed the stairs, our heels clicking on the stone steps. Her key rattled in the lock. She pushed me in ahead of her, locking the door behind us. It was absolutely dark. I could not tell if I stood in a room or a hallway. She moved closer to me until her breasts kissed my shoulders and stood, not quite touching me, for several seconds. Then she sighed. Her expelled breath contained such weariness and resignation—I was overcome by an irrational desire to hug her knees and weep. She seized my wrists, brought the scarf back through my crotch, and tied my hands together. The deftness of her movements provoked my lust again. Being tied makes me feel safe and somehow confident and very, very sexy. She moved away from me, returning with a fat, lit candle. “We’ll go that way to the bathroom—she said, pointing down the hall. I took a step in that direction. She slapped me, hard. I rocked back on my heels, and she hit me again. My face burning, I stared at the floor and tried to control my tears. “Not so goddamn fast,” she hissed. “Who gives the orders here? You?” “No, no,” I stuttered. She struck out again. “Get down on you knees, damn you. Get down.” I almost fell in my hurry to avoid any more blows. I could not balance with my hands tied behind me.

• From Lady Chatterley's Lover (1928)

  She heard the curious satisfaction in his voice. She went upstairs to her bedroom. There she heard the loud-speaker begin to bellow, in an idiotically velveteen-genteel sort of voice, something about a series of street-cries, the very cream of genteel affectation imitating old criers. She pulled on her old violet-coloured mackintosh, and slipped out of the house at the side door. The drizzle of rain was like a veil over the world, mysterious, hushed, not cold. She got very warm as she hurried across the park. She had to open her light waterproof. The wood was silent, still and secret in the evening drizzle of rain, full of the mystery of eggs and half-open buds, half-unsheathed flowers. In the dimness of it all trees glistened naked and dark as if they had unclothed themselves, and the green things on earth seemed to hum with greenness. There was still no one at the clearing. The chicks had nearly all gone under the mother hens, only one or two lost adventurous ones still dibbed about in the dryness under the straw roof-shelter. And they were doubtful of themselves. So! He still had not been. He was staying away on purpose. Or perhaps something was wrong. Perhaps she could go to the cottage and see. But she was born to wait. She opened the hut with her key. It was all tidy, the corn put in the bin, the blankets folded on the shelf, the straw neat in a corner; a new bundle of straw. The hurricane lamp hung on a nail. The table and chair had been put back where she had lain. She sat down on a stool in the doorway. How still everything was! The fine rain blew very softly, filmily, but the wind made no noise. Nothing made any sound. The trees stood like powerful beings, dim, twilit, silent and alive. How alive everything was! Night was drawing near again; she would have to go. He was avoiding her. But suddenly he came striding into the clearing, in his black oilskin jacket like a chauffeur, shining with wet. He glanced quickly at the hut, half-saluted, then veered aside and went on to the coops. There he crouched in silence, looking carefully at everything, then carefully shutting the hens and chicks up safe against the night. At last he came slowly towards her. She still sat on her stool. He stood before her under the porch. "You come then," he said, using the intonation of the dialect. "Yes," she said, looking up at him. "You're late!" "Ay!" he replied, looking away into the wood. She rose slowly, drawing aside her stool. "Did you want to come in?" she asked. He looked down at her shrewdly. "Won't folks be thinkin' somethink, you comin' here every night?" he said. "Why?" She looked up at him, at a loss. "I said I'd come. Nobody knows." "They soon will, though," he replied. "An' what then?" She was at a loss for an answer.

• From The Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  faith I consented to read all those books, and as I went on reading them we discussed them. I read a number of such books in 1893. I do not remember the names of them all, but they included the Commentary of Dr. Parker of the City Temple, Pearson’s Many Infallible Proofs and Butler’s Analogy. Parts of these were unintelligible to me. I liked some things in them, while I did not like others. Many Infallible Proofs were proofs in support of the religion of the Bible, as the author understood it. The book had no effect on me. Parker’s Commentary was morally stimulating, but it could not be of any help to one who had no faith in the prevalent Christian beliefs. Butler’s Analogy struck me to be a very profound and difficult book, which should be read four or five times to be understood properly. It seemed to me to be written with a view to converting atheists to theism. The arguments advanced in it regarding the existence of God were unnecessary for me, as I had then passed the stage of unbelief; but the arguments in proof of Jesus being the only incarnation of God and the mediator between God and man left me unmoved. But Mr. Coates was not the man easily to accept defeat. He had great affection for me. He saw, round my neck, the Vaishnava necklace of Tulasi-beads. He thought it to be superstition and was pained by it. ‘This superstition does not become you. Come, let me break the necklace.’ ‘No, you will not. It is a sacred gift from my mother.’ ‘But do you believe in it?’ ‘I do not know its mysterious significance. I do not think I should come to harm if I did not wear it. But I cannot, without sufficient reason, give up a necklace that she put round my neck out of love and in the conviction that it would be conducive to my welfare. When, with the passage of time, it wears away and

• From The Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  his generosity. But I thought it was quite improper to exclude a man from a vegetarian society simply because he refused to regard puritan morals as one of the objects of the society. Mr. Hills’ view regarding the exclusion of anti- puritans from the society was personal to himself, and it had nothing to do with the declared object of the society, which was simply the promotion of vegetarianism and not of any system of morality. I therefore held that any vegetarian could be a member of the society irrespective of his views on other morals. There were in the Committee others also who shared my view, but I felt myself personally called upon to express my own. How to do it was the question. I had not the courage to speak and I therefore decided to set down my thoughts in writing. I went to the meeting with the document in my pocket. So far as I recollect, I did not find myself equal even to reading it, and the President had it read by someone else. Dr. Allinson lost the day. Thus in the very first battle of the kind I found myself siding with the losing party. But I had comfort in the thought that the cause was right. I have a faint recollection that, after this incident, I resigned from the Committee. This shyness I retained throughout my stay in England. Even when I paid a social call the presence of half a dozen or more people would strike me dumb. I once went to Ventnor with Sjt. Mazmudar. We stayed there with a vegetarian family. Mr. Howard, the author of The Ethics of Diet, was also staying at the same wateringplace. We met him, and he invited us to speak at a meeting for the promotion of vegetarianism. I had ascertained that it was not considered incorrect to read one’s speech. I knew that many did so to express themselves coherently and briefly. To speak ex tempore would have been out of the question for me. I had therefore written down my speech. I stood up to read it, but could not. My vision became blurred and I trembled, though the speech hardly covered

• From The Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  EDUCATION OF CHILDREN When I landed at Durban in January 1897, I had three children with me, my sister’s son ten years old, and my own sons nine and five years of age. Where was I to educate them ? I could have sent them to the schools for European children, but only as a matter of favour and exception. No other Indian children were allowed to attend them. For these there were schools established by Christian missions, but I was not prepared to send my children there, as I did not like the education imparted in those schools. For one thing, the medium of instruction would be only English, or perhaps incorrect Tamil or Hindi; this too could only have been arranged with difficulty. I could not possibly put up with this and other disadvantages. In the meantime I was making my own attempt to teach them. But that was at best irregular, and I could not get hold of a suitable Gujarati teacher. I was at my wits’ end. I advertised for an English teacher who should teach the children under my direction. Some regular instruction was to be given them by this teacher, and for the rest they should be satisfied with what little I could give them irregularly. So I engaged an English governess on 7 pounds a month. This went on for some time, but not to my satisfaction. The boys acquired some knowledge of Gujarati through my conversation and intercourse with them, which was strictly in the mother-tounge. I was loath to send them back to India, for I believed even then that young children should not be separated from their parents. The education that children naturally imbibe in a well-ordered household is impossible to obtain in hostels. I therefore kept my children with me. I did send my nephew and elder son to be educated at residential schools in India for a few months, but I soon had to recall them. Later, the eldest son, long after he had come of age, broke away from me, and went to India to join a High

• From The Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  GOKHALE’S CHARITY I have already referred to the attack of pleurisy I had in England. Gokhale returned to London soon after. Kallenbach and I used regularly to go to him. Our talks were mostly about the war, and as Kallenbach had the geography of Germany at his finger tips, and had travelled much in Europe, he used to show him on the map the various places in connection with the war. When I got pleurisy this also became a topic of daily discussion. My dietetic experiments were going on even then. My diet consisted, among other things, of groundnuts, ripe and unripe bananas, lemon, olive oil, tomatoes and grapes. I completely eschewed milk, cereals, pulses and other things. Dr. Jivraj Mehta treated me. He pressed me hard to resume milk and cereals, but I was obdurate. The matter reached Gokhale’s ears. He had not much regard for my reasoning in favour of a fruitarian diet, and he wanted me to take whatever the doctor prescribed for my health. It was no easy thing for me not a yield to Gokhale’s pressure. When he would not take a refusal, I begged him to give me twenty-four hours for thinking over the question. As Kallenbach and I returned home that evening, we discussed where my duty lay. He had been with me in my experiment. He liked it, but I saw that he was agreeable to my giving it up if my health demanded it. So I had to decide for myself according to the dictates of the inner voice. I spent the whole night thinking over the matter. To give up the experiment would mean renouncing all my ideas in that direction, and yet I found no flaw in them. The question was how far I should yield to Gokhale’s loving pressure, and how far I might modify my experiment in the so-called interests of health. I

• From Lady Chatterley's Lover (1928)

  "You must have a nurse or somebody, to look after you personally. You should really have a manservant," said Hilda as they sat, with apparent calmness, at coffee after dinner. She spoke in her soft, seemingly gentle way, but Clifford felt she was hitting him on the head with a bludgeon. "You think so?" he said coldly. "I'm sure! It's necessary. Either that, or father and I must take Connie away for some months. This can't go on." "What can't go on?" "Haven't you looked at the child?" asked Hilda, gazing at him full stare. He looked rather like a huge, boiled crayfish, at the moment; or so she thought. "Connie and I will discuss it," he said. "I've already discussed it with her," said Hilda. Clifford had been long enough in the hands of nurses; he hated them, because they left him no real privacy. And a manservant! ... he couldn't stand a man hanging round him. Almost better any woman. But why not Connie? The two sisters drove off in the morning, Connie looking rather like an Easter lamb, rather small beside Hilda, who held the wheel. Sir Malcolm was away, but the Kensington house was open. The doctor examined Connie carefully, and asked her all about her life. "I see your photograph, and Sir Clifford's, in the illustrated papers sometimes. Almost notorieties, aren't you? That's how the quiet little girls grow up, though you're only a quiet little girl even now, in spite of the illustrated papers. No, no! There's nothing organically wrong, but it won't do! it won't do! Tell Sir Clifford he's got to bring you to town, or take you abroad, and amuse you. You've got to be amused, got to! Your vitality is much too low; no reserves, no reserves. The nerves of the heart a bit queer already: oh, yes! Nothing but nerves; I'd put you right in a month at Cannes or Biarritz. But it mustn't go on, _mustn't_, I tell you, or I won't be answerable for consequences. You're spending your life without renewing it. You've got to be amused, properly, healthily amused. You're spending your vitality without making any. Can't go on, you know. Depression! avoid depression!" Hilda set her jaw, and that meant something.

• From The Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  OUTCASTE With my mother’s permission and blessings, I set off exultantly for Bombay, leaving my wife with a baby of a few months. But on arrival there friends told my brother that the Indian Ocean was rough in June and July, and as this was my first voyage, I should not be allowed to sail until November. Someone also reported that a steamer had just been sunk in a gale. This made my brother uneasy, and he refused to take the risk of allowing me to sail immediately. Leaving me with a friend in Bombay, he returned to Rajkot to resume his duty. He put the money for my travelling expenses in the keeping of a brother-in-law, and left word with some friends to give me whatever help I might need. Time hung heavily on my hands in Bombay. I dreamt continually of going to England. Meanwhile my caste-people were agitated over my going abroad. No Modh Bania had been to England up to now, and if I dared to do so, I ought to be brought to book! A general meeting of the caste was called and I was summoned to appear before it. I went. Now I suddenly managed to muster up courage I do not know. Nothing daunted, and without the slightest hesitation, I came before the meeting. The Sheth- the headman of the community who was distantly related to me and had been on very good terms with my father, thus accosted me: ‘In the opinion of the caste, your proposal to go to England is not proper. Our religion forbids voyages abroad. We have also heard that it is not possible to live there without compromising out religion. One is obliged to eat and drink with Europeans!’

• From The Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  family, and also to remove from place to place according to the work I had to do, thus gaining experience at the same time. The rooms were so selected as to enable me to reach the place of business on foot in half an hour, and so save fares. Before this I had always taken some kind of conveyance whenever I went anywhere, and had to find extra time for walks. The new arrangement combined walks and economy, as it meant a saving of fares and gave me walks of eight or ten miles a day. It was mainly this habit of long walks that kept me practically free from illness throughout my stay in England and gave me a fairly strong body. Thus I rented a suite of rooms; one for a sitting room and another for a bedroom. This was the second stage. The third was yet to come. These changes saved me half the expense. But how was I to utilize the time? I knew that Bar examinations did not require much study, and I therefore did not feel pressed for time. My weak English was a perpetual worry to me. Mr (afterwards Sir Frederic) Lely’s words, ‘Graduate first and then come to me,’ still rang in my ears. I should, I thought, not only be called to the Bar, but have some literary degree as well. I inquired about the Oxford and Cambridge University courses, consulted a few friends, and found that, if I elected to go to either of these places, that would mean greater expense and a much longer stay in England than I was prepared for. A friend suggested that, if I really wanted to have the satisfaction of taking a difficult examination, I should pass the London Matriculation. It meant a good deal of labour and much addition to my stock of general knowledge, without any extra expense worth the name. I welcomed the suggestion. But the syllabus frightened me. Latin and a modern language were compulsory! How was I to manage Latin? But the friend entered a strong plea for it: ‘Latin is very valuable to lawyers. Knowledge of Latin is very useful in understanding law-books. And one paper in Roman Law is entirely in Latin.

• From Lady Chatterley's Lover (1928)

  His relatives treated her quite kindly. She knew that the kindliness indicated a lack of fear, and that these people had no respect for you unless you could frighten them a little. But again she had no contact. She let them be kindly and disdainful, she let them feel they had no need to draw their steel in readiness. She had no real connection with them. Time went on. Whatever happened, nothing happened, because she was so beautifully out of contact. She and Clifford lived in their ideas and his books. She entertained ... there were always people in the house. Time went on as the clock does, half-past eight instead of half-past seven. CHAPTER III Connie was aware, however, of a growing restlessness. Out of her disconnection, a restlessness was taking possession of her like madness. It twitched her limbs when she didn't want to twitch them. It jerked her spine when she didn't want to jerk upright but preferred to rest comfortably. It thrilled inside her body, in her womb, somewhere, till she felt she must jump into water and swim to get away from it; a mad restlessness. It made her heart beat violently for no reason. And she was getting thinner. It was just restlessness. She would rush off across the park, and abandon Clifford, and lie prone in the bracken. To get away from the house ... she must get away from the house and everybody. The wood was her one refuge, her sanctuary. But it was not really a refuge, a sanctuary, because she had no connection with it. It was only a place where she could get away from the rest. She never really touched the spirit of the wood itself ... if it had any such nonsensical thing. Vaguely she knew herself that she was going to pieces in some way. Vaguely she knew she was out of connection: she had lost touch with the substantial and vital world. Only Clifford and his books, which did not exist ... which had nothing in them! Void to void. Vaguely she knew. But it was like beating her head against a stone. Her father warned her again: "Why don't you get yourself a beau, Connie? Do you all the good in the world." That winter Michaelis came for a few days. He was a young Irishman who had already made a large fortune by his plays in America. He had been taken up quite enthusiastically for a time by smart society in London, for he wrote smart society plays. Then gradually smart society realised that it had been made ridiculous at the hands of a down-at-heel Dublin street-rat, and revulsion came. Michaelis was the last word in what was caddish and bounderish. He was discovered to be anti-English, and to the class that made this discovery this was worse than the dirtiest crime. He was cut dead, and his corpse thrown into the refuse-can.

• From The Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  IN LONDON AT LAST I did not feel at all sea-sick. But as the days passed, I became fidgety. I felt shy even in speaking to the steward. I was quite unaccustomed to talking English, and except for Sjt. Mazmudar all the other passengers in the second saloon were English. I could not speak to them. For I could rarely follow their remarks when they came up to speak to me, and even when I understood I could not reply. I had to frame every sentence in my mind, before I could bring it out. I was innocent of the use of knives and forks and had not the boldness to inquire what dishes on the menu were free of meat, I therefore never took meals at table but always had them in my cabin, and they consisted principally of sweets and fruits which I had brought with me. Sjt. Mazmudar had no difficulty, and he mixed with everybody. He would move about freely on deck, while I hid myself in the cabin the whole day, only venturing up on deck when there were but few people. Sjt. Mazmudar kept pleading with me to associate with the passengers and to talk with them freely. He told me that lawyers should have a long tongue, and related to me his legal experiences. He advised me to take every possible opportunity of talking English, and not to mind making mistakes which were obviously unavoidable with a foreign tongue. But nothing could make me conquer my shyness. An English passenger, taking kindly to me, drew me into conversation. He was older than I. He asked me what I ate, what I was, where I was going, why I was shy, and so on. He also advised me to come to table. He laughed at my insistence on abjuring meat, and said in a friendly way when we were in the Red Sea: ‘It is all very well so far but you will have to revise your decision in the Bay of Biscay. And it is so cold in England that one cannot possibly live there without meat.’

• From The Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  RUMBLINGS OF THE STORM This was my first voyage with my wife and children. I have often observed in the course of this narrative that, on account of child marriages amongst middle class Hindus, the husband will be literate whilst the wife remains practically unlettered. A wide gulf thus separates them, and the husband has to become his wife’s teacher. So I had to think out the details of the dress to be adopted by my wife and children, the food they were to eat, and the manners which would be suited to their new surroundings. Some of the recollections of those days are amusing to look back upon.A Hindu wife regards implicit obedience to her husband as the highest religion. A Hindu husband regards himself as lord and master of his wife who must ever dance attendance upon him. I believed, at the time of which I am writing, that in order to look civilized, our dress and manners had as far as possible to approximate to the European standard. Because I thought only thus could we have some influence, and without influence it would not be possible to serve the community. I therefore determined the style of dress for my wife and children. How could I like them to be known as Kathiawad Banias? The Parsis used then to be regarded as the most civilized people amongst Indians, and so, when the complete European style seemed to be unsuited, we adopted the Parsi style. Accordingly my wife wore the Parsi sari, and the boys the Parsi coat and trousers. Of course no one could be without shoes and stockings. It was long before my wife and children could get used to them. The shoes cramped their feet and the stockings stank with perspiration. The toes often got sore, I always had my answers ready to all these objections. But I have an impression that it was not so much the answers as the force of authority that carried conviction. They agreed to the changes in dress as there was no alternative. In the same spirit and with even

• From The Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  MORE EXPERIMENTS IN DIETETICS I was anxious to observe brahmacharya in thought, word and deed, and equally anxious to devote the maximum of time to the Satyagraha struggle and fit myself for it by cultivating purity. I was therefore led to make further changes and to impose greater restraints upon myself in the matter of food. The motive for the previous changes had been largely hygienic, but the new experiments were made from a religious standpoint. Fasting and restriction in diet now played a more important part in my life. Passion in man is generally co-existent with a hankering after the pleasures of the palate. And so it was with me. I have encountered many difficulties in trying to control passion as well as taste, and I cannot claim even now to have brought them under complete subjection. I have considered myself to be a heavy eater. What friends have thought to be my restraint has never appeared to me in that light. If I had failed to develop restraint to the extent that I have, I should have descended lower than the beasts and met my doom long ago. However, as I had adequately realized my shortcomings, I made great efforts to get rid of them, and thanks to this endeavour I have all these years pulled on with my body and put in with it my share of work. Being conscious of my weakness and unexpectedly coming in contact with congenial company, I began to take an exclusive fruit diet or to fast on the Ekadashi day, and also to observe Janmashtami and similar holidays. I began with a fruit diet, but from the standpoint of restraint I did not find much to choose between a fruit diet and a diet of food grains. I observed that the same indulgence of taste was possible with the former as with the latter, and even more, when one got accustomed to it. I therefore came to attach greater

• From Confessions of a Mask (1958)

  The need to prove to myself that I had some sort of potency seemed to become more urgent each day. It seemed that I could not go on living without some such proof. And yet nowhere could I discover a clue to the realization of my inherent perversity. There was no opportunity here for satisfying my abnormal desires, not even in their mildest form. Spring came, and a frantic nervousness was built up behind my facade of tranquillity. It seemed as though the season itself bore me a grudge, expressing its hostility in its dust-laden winds. If an automobile almost grazed me, I would mentally berate it in a loud voice, saying: "Well, why don't you go on and run over me!" I delighted in the strenuous study and Spartan existence I had imposed upon myself. At odd moments in my studying I would go out for a walk, and often I became aware that people were looking questioningly at my bloodshot eyes. Even when an observer might have thought I was heaping very diligent day on diligent day, actually I was only learning the gnawing fatigue of sloppiness, dissipation, utterly rotten laziness, and a way of life that knew no tomorrow. But then one afternoon toward the end of spring I was on a streetcar and suddenly felt a pure throbbing of the heart that seemed to take my breath. It was because, looking between the standing passengers, I had caught a glimpse of Sonoko sitting on the opposite side of the car. There beneath her childlike eyebrows I could see her eyes, sincere and modest, with their indescribably profound gentleness. I was on the point of getting to my feet when one of the passengers let go his strap and began moving toward the exit. Then the girl's face became entirely visible. It was not Sonoko. My heart was still clamoring. It was easy to explain to myself that those heart throbs were due simply to surprise or else to a guilty conscience, but even such an explanation could not destroy the purity of the feeling I had momentarily experienced. I was instantly reminded of the emotions I had felt upon catching sight of Sonoko that morning of March the ninth. It was exactly the same now; it was the same thing. It was the same even to the feeling of sorrow that seemed to have pierced me to the heart. This little incident became an unforgettable thing, giving rise during the next few days to a vivid tumult of excitement within me. Surely it can't be true that I'm still in love with Sonoko, surely I'm incapable of loving a woman—until the day before these beliefs had been my only trusty and obedient followers, of whose loyalty I had felt absolutely assured, and yet now even they were in mutiny against me. In this way my memories suddenly regained their power over me; it was a coup d'etat that took the form of pure agony.

• From Confessions of a Mask (1958)

  I continued writing Sonoko frequent letters, and while I was careful not to say anything that might develop the matter further, at the same time I used a tone that would reveal no cooling off on my part. Within less than a month she wrote telling me that they were all going to visit Kusano again at the regiment near Tokyo to which he had been transferred. Weakness urged me to go with them. Strangely enough, even though I had resolved so firmly to escape from her, still I was irresistibly drawn to another meeting. And when I did meet her I found that I had completely changed, while she remained just the same as ever. It had become impossible now for me to make a single joke. Sonoko and Kusano, and even her mother and grandmother, noticed the change in me, but they ascribed it to nothing more than my sincerity of purpose. During the visit Kusano made a remark to me which, even though spoken with his usual gentleness, made me tremble with apprehension: "In a few days I'll be sending you a rather important letter. Be on the lookout for it, will you?" . . . A week later I went to the house in the suburbs where my family were, and found his letter had arrived. it was written in that handwriting so characteristic of him, revealing in its very immaturity the sincerity of his friendship: ”. . . All the family is concerned about you and Sonoko. I have been appointed ambassador plentipotentiary in the matter. What I have to say is brief-I simply want to ask how you feel about it. Naturally Sonoko is counting on you, and everyone else is too. My mother has apparently even begun thinking about when the ceremony should be. Maybe it's too early for that, but I imagine it would be all right to go ahead and fix a date for the engagement now. But of course we're only guessing. That's why I want to ask how you feel about it. The family would like to settle everything, including making arrangements with your family, just as soon as we hear from you. But I certainly don't mean to force you to take any step you're not ready to take. Just tell me how you really feel and I'll quit worrying. Even if your answer is no, I'll never hold it against you or be angry, nor will it affect our friendship. Of course I'll be delighted if it's yes, but my feelings won't be hurt even if it's no. What I want is your frank answer, freely given. I sincerely hope you'll answer without any feeling of compulsion or obligation. As your very good friend I'm awaiting your answer. . . ." I was thunderstruck. I looked around, feeling that someone might have been watching me as I read the letter.

• From Macho Sluts (1988)

  Up ahead is a back-to-Africa wagon. A black woman in a white chador is packing it up, getting ready to push it home. They say the Muslim men are raising money to kidnap the women to send them home because they don’t really want to go back to Africa, but I figure it’s okay to buy from a woman’s wagon. Who knows? I’m not sure I would turn down a ticket out of here to any place but the North Pole. “Hey!” I yell. “You got anything left over? Cheap?” She has cold eggrolls, and I sacrifice the price of my second beer for a little grease and protein. Somebody will be at the Labrys who can front me a drink or two. Lefty, that cheap quick-change artist, he better, the last time I scored I bought him dinner. The bar is only a block away. I skip and run, stuffing my face, singing some crazy song. The sign is dark, so I figure somebody has broken the neon tube again or maybe they didn’t pay their bill. But when I get to the door, it’s boarded up, and there are all kinds of yellow Health Department notices all over it—quarantine for sexually transmitted diseases, selling alcohol to minors, insufficient insect control, even one for improper drainage. There are also a whole bunch of posters from “a group of residents concerned with the quality of life in this neighborhood” that say they feel this establishment is an eyesore that lowers property values and encourages woman-hating. I’m surprised this rickety, filthy, beloved firetrap manages to stand up under the weight of its own wickedness. Something rattles down the street. I jump. There she is—my jane, wearing her ridiculous version of perv fashion, kicking a can down the street. She probably got here just a few minutes before me. Her back is to me. I don’t think she’s seen me. This is goddess-sent. I can’t make it through a night of carhopping in the red-light district tonight. I have no judgment, no snap. I’ll pick up a killer or a cop for sure. I run after her, and she spins around. The puppy has acquired a more defensive attitude. Her black eye makes me wince. It’s puffed-out and raw, and so is part of her lip. Her clothes don’t look new any more. There’s blood and puke on the T-shirt. Her ersatz collar and the plastic jacket are gone. She must have just gotten out of jail.

• From The Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  performed the Saptapadi [1] how we, the newly wedded husband and wife, put the sweet Kansar [2] into each other’s mouth, and how we began to live together. And oh! that first night.Two innocent children all unwittingly hurled themselves into the ocean of life. My brother’s wife had thoroughly coached me about my behaviour on the first night. I do not know who had coached my wife. I have never asked her about it, nor am I inclined to do so now. The reader may be sure that we were too nervous to face each other. We were certainly too shy. How was I to talk to her, and what was I to say? The coaching could not carry me far. But no coaching is really necessary in such matters. The impressions of the former birth are potent enough to make all coaching superfluous. We gradually began to know each other, and to speak freely together. We were the same age. but I took no time in assuming the authority of a husband. 1. Saptapadi are seven steps the Hindu bride and bridegroom walk together, making at the same time promises of mutual fidelity and devotion, after which the marriage becomes irrevocable. ↵ 2. Kansar is a preparation of wheat which the pair partake of together after the completion of the ceremony. ↵

• From Confessions of a Mask (1958)

  After all, Tokyo covers a vast area and even such an air raid as that of the night before could not affect it all.A few days later I visited the Kusano house, taking some books I had promised to lend Sonoko. There will be no need to give their titles when I say they were just the sort of novels that a young man of twenty should choose for a girl of eighteen. I experienced an unusual delight in doing the conventional thing. Sonoko happened to be out, but was expected back soon. I waited for her in the parlor. While I was waiting, the sky of early spring became as cloudy as lye; it began to rain. Sonoko had apparently been caught in the rain on her way home, for when she came into the gloomy parlor drops of water still glistened here and there in her hair. Shrugging her shoulders, she sat down in the shadows at one end of the deep sofa. Again a smile spread across her lips. She was wearing a crimson jacket, from which the roundness of her breasts seem to loom up in the thin darkness. How timidly we talked, with what a paucity of words! This was the first opportunity we had ever had to be alone together. It was obvious that the carefree way we had talked to each other on that brief train journey had been due largely to the presence of the chatterbox behind us and of the two sisters. Today there remained not a vestige of that boldness which, only a few days before, had led me to hand her a oneline love letter written on a scrap of paper. Even more than before I was overcome with a feeling of humbleness. I was a person who could not help becoming serious whenever I let my guard down, but I was not afraid to do so before her. Had I forgotten my act? Had I forgotten that I was determined to fall utterly in love like any other person? However that may be, I had not the slightest feeling of being in love with this refreshing girl. And yet I felt at ease with her. The shower stopped and the setting sun shone into the room. Sonoko's eyes and lips gleamed. Her beauty depressed me, making me remember my own feeling of helplessness. This painful feeling made Sonoko seem all the more ephemeral. "As for us," I blurted out, "who knows how long we'll live? Suppose there were an air raid at this minute. Probably one of the bombs would fall directly on us." "Wouldn't that be wonderful!"

• From Between the World and Me (2015)

  My curiosity, in the case of Prince Jones, opened a world of newspaper clippings, histories, and sociologies. I called politicians and questioned them. I was told that the citizens were more likely to ask for police support than to complain about brutality. I was told that the black citizens of PG County were comfortable and had “a certain impatience” with crime. I had seen these theories before, back when I was researching in Moorland, leafing through the various fights within and without the black community. I knew that these were theories, even in the mouths of black people, that justified the jails springing up around me, that argued for ghettos and projects, that viewed the destruction of the black body as incidental to the preservation of order. According to this theory “safety” was a higher value than justice, perhaps the highest value. I understood. What I would not have given, back in Baltimore, for a line of officers, agents of my country and my community, patrolling my route to school! There were no such officers, and whenever I saw the police it meant that something had already gone wrong. All along I knew that there were some, those who lived in the Dream, for whom the conversation was different. Their “safety” was in schools, portfolios, and skyscrapers. Ours was in men with guns who could only view us with the same contempt as the society that sent them. And the lack of safety cannot help but constrain your sense of the galaxy. It never occurred to me, for instance, that I could, or should even want to, live in New York. I did love Baltimore. I loved Charlie Rudo’s and the sidewalk sales at Mondawmin. I loved sitting out on the porch with your uncle Damani waiting for Frank Ski to play “Fresh Is the Word.” I always thought I was destined to go back home after college—but not simply because I loved home but because I could not imagine much else for myself. And that stunted imagination is something I owe to my chains. And yet some of us really do see more.

• From Macho Sluts (1988)

  I found myself transported to her side. She turned her head to stare at me, and all the beer I had drunk ran straight into my bladder. We were too close. If I puffed out my breath, it would disturb the downy hairs along the sides of her neck. She did not back away, just gave me a cold little once-over. I forced myself to stand my ground, keeping my feet apart and my hands unclenched at my sides, while she took in my tousled gold-brown hair; the tight, black leotard; the studded leather belt; and my faded, button-fly Levis. But I could only bear to look her in the eye for a few seconds before I had to drop my gaze to the toes of her boots. I was in agony. I had no alibi, no catchy opening line, no excuse. I needed a haircut. One of the buttons on my fly had slipped out of the frayed buttonhole. I tried not to pant, knowing that would expand my cleavage, and wound up hyperventilating. When I glanced up, she was, indeed, staring at my breasts … or was she looking at my throat? Then her eyes flicked to my wrists, and back to my neck, and I knew what had caught her attention. I was wearing, as I always do, two braided black-leather bracelets and a matching collar. It sounds dramatic, but most people don’t notice them unless they know what they mean. If she read me, it didn’t show on her face. “What’s your name?” she demanded. “Liz.” She nodded, and continued to stare at me while she finished her beer. “Dance?” she said finally, and walked toward the music without looking back to see if I would follow. I was there when she turned around. Her arms accepted me, fit me to her, and we began to duel with one another. I wondered how many women had been settled against her hip. How many eager cunts had pressed just where mine was pressed? More than she could remember, to judge from the practiced, almost automatic rhythm of her dance.