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 229 of 501 · 20 per page

• From Shunned (2018)

  I set down the phone receiver. I could almost smell the sweet perfume of the pine trees that lined the meadows there. It would be the best place to tell them the truth about my life. It held enough happy memories to feel safe, but it was a place we could all leave behind. I’d enjoy our time together. I’d absorb as much of their love and affection as possible—the emotional equivalent of storing nuts for the winter. And then I’d sit them down for a talk the morning before our drive back to Portland and tell them the truth. I couldn’t be sure how they’d react in the moment. But I was absolutely sure of one thing: they would shun me. They’d believe they had no choice, that it was what Jehovah wanted and a rightful rebuke for someone this haughty. I knew this was the last vacation I’d have with my family for some time to come, if ever. They, of course, would be oblivious to this plan, anticipating my visit as always, glad to see me, hoping for some glimmer of humility in my spiritual state. It would be a shock— but then again, maybe not. I knew only that I had to move forward, to free Ross, to free myself—and telling them in person was the only dignified thing to do. Chapter 15 The truth is rarely pure and never simple. —Oscar Wilde I’d alerted Demitri to the elders’ impending arrival and requested that he let them in. He called just after they passed through the lobby, heading toward the elevator and my apartment. It was a Sunday afternoon. I’d spent a relaxed morning reading the paper, then biked along the lakefront to the Shedd Aquarium and back. The ride allowed me to clear my head and think through what I might say later. I’d come home and cleaned up, then stalled a bit in front of my opened closet. What are the kids wearing these days to confess their sins? I settled on jeans and a plain white blouse. There was a knock on my door. I stroked the cat, who had been watching me from the edge of the dresser. “Wish me luck, Leo.” I opened the door to greet Ray and the elder who’d traveled to Indonesia. “Hi, Linda,” Ray said turning to the side. “This is Jeremy Schwartz. He tells me you two have already met at my house, which I have no recollection of, but I’ll take his word for it.” “Hello,” he said, and smiled as he reached out to shake my hand. “Yes,” I said. “Nice to see you again. Please come in.” They were both wearing suits, no doubt the same ones they’d worn to the Kingdom Hall that morning.

• From Shunned (2018)

  Bob and I had one week to make our travel plans, but those arrangements were small potatoes compared with the questions running through my head. My first trip to Portland had been an antidote for years of anxiety; I’d been treated with respect, and no one had preached at me. But a crowded memorial service promised a new set of dynamics. I started a mental list of relatives and Witnesses who might be there. Could I stay openhearted through this second round? My dominant concern was whether or not Randy would talk to me. It had been twelve years since our parting conversation in the mall parking lot. But if Lory could find a way to speak to me, maybe Randy could, too. A few days before our departure, my mother telephoned. She wanted to be sure our travel arrangements were in place, but I sensed she had more than logistics on her mind. “We’d like to invite you and Bob over for dinner after the memorial service,” she said. “I hope you haven’t made other plans.” Other plans? Was she suggesting we might go out and paint the town after this solemn occasion, or was she just trying to be gracious and give us a social “out”? I’d just spent a thousand dollars on airfare. What else was there to do but show up fully? “We’d love to come,” I said. “It would be nice for Bob to see the house I grew up in.” “Now, Lindy, I want to prepare you,” she said, in a careful-on-the-playground tone. “A lot of friends from the congregation will be at the service, and several of them are dropping food by afterward so I don’t have to cook.” I was pacing between my kitchen and my dining room. “That’s exactly the kind of thing I’d expect from the friends, Mom.” “Several of them have asked about you, and many of them are looking forward to seeing you. But, Lindy”—there was a long pause—“I must warn you, dear, there will be some people who won’t talk to you. They want to, of course, but their Christian conscience won’t allow it. You need to be prepared for that.” I stopped pacing. She had confirmed what my intuition told me to expect: some people would welcome my presence; others would cling to the rules. To them, the Scriptures were clear: “If anyone comes to you and does not bring this teaching, never receive him into your home or say a greeting to him. For he that says a greeting to him is a sharer in his wicked works.” Mom and Dad had somehow found a workable middle ground that allowed them to invite us to their home, but for others there was no acceptable compromise, only patriarchal edicts and time-worn separation. “Thanks for the warning, Mom, but I expected that,” I said. “I’ll see you Saturday at the memorial hall.” I channeled my anxiety and excitement into obsessive thoughts over what I would wear.

• From The Things They Carried (1990)

  Shortly after midnight we moved into the ambush site outside My Khe. The whole platoon was there, spread out in the dense brush along the trail, and for five hours nothing at all happened. We were working in two-man teams—one man on guard while the other slept, switching off every two hours—and I remember it was still dark when Kiowa shook me awake for the final watch. The night was foggy and hot. For the first few moments I felt lost, not sure about directions, groping for my helmet and weapon. I reached out and found three grenades and lined them up in front of me; the pins had already been straightened for quick throwing. And then for maybe half an hour I kneeled there and waited. Very gradually, in tiny slivers, dawn began to break through the fog, and from my position in the brush I could see ten or fifteen meters up the trail. The mosquitoes were fierce. I remember slapping at them, wondering if I should wake up Kiowa and ask for some repellent, then thinking it was a bad idea, then looking up and seeing the young man come out of the fog. He wore black clothing and rubber sandals and a gray ammunition belt. His shoulders were slightly stooped, his head cocked to the side as if listening for something. He seemed at ease. He carried his weapon in one hand, muzzle down, moving

• From Shunned (2018)

  Mom would cringe at that. Nor would she be pleased by the photo of me blowing out the candles of my very first birthday cake—at thirty-five years of age—surrounded by my girlfriends singing “Happy Birthday.” There was a photo of me and some friends hamming it up on a sailboat in Monroe Harbor, and a picture of Cindy and me on our bikes, the Tuscan hill towns behind us. I wondered if she would notice the nondenominational prayer books on my shelves or the esoteric spiritual titles, like The Feminine Face of God and Anatomy of the Spirit, next to Dickens and Du Maurier. Better to hide the brochure from Unity Church and avoid mentioning my current exploration into shamanism or that I had met my two best friends at a meditation workshop. The next day, swimming in uncertainty about what Mom intended for our time together or how long she would be in town, I placed an emergency call to my therapist. She encouraged me to get clear about what I wanted. I still needed other people to remind me it was okay to want things, that it wasn’t selfish or un-Christian. I wanted to hear news about the family. Details. Stories. Was everyone healthy? Had Mom and Dad grown a big vegetable garden? Where had they gone for vacation? What funny thing had my nephew said lately? I wanted a good old-fashioned catch-up session with my mom. There was also the matter of my pride. I wanted her to see me happy, successful, and prospering in my new life—no worse for wear, so to speak. As the week progressed and my mother’s visit got closer, anticipation and dread increased in equal measure. The eternal optimist in me believed we could have fun together. Each day I cleaned and tidied a certain room of the house, hiding piles of clutter and scanning the bookshelves for potentially offensive items. I finally got around to buying houseplants for the empty spots in each room. I swept and organized the pantry. I polished my shoes and got a haircut. I called all my friends and asked them to say a prayer for me. I considered introducing Mom to some of my friends. Her communication left me with few details to plan around. After showing her around my apartment, I thought about taking her sightseeing around Chicago. My boyfriend offered to take us sailing. “There isn’t a better way to take in the grandeur of the skyline,” he said, “than from a boat in Lake Michigan.” We’d both agreed that, should this happen, we’d simplify things by telling Mom we were just friends. He agreed to keep his day open, awaiting my call. The day before her visit, I bought fresh flowers for the house.

• From Shunned (2018)

  The writing, with its tidy, just-so slant to the right, was familiar: my mother’s hand. My breathing stopped short and my legs wobbled as I dropped down to sit on the cool concrete stairs, resting my purse and briefcase, staring at the envelope. The return address was the house where I was raised on Mapleleaf Street, where my parents had lived for over thirty years. She still wrote her ones the same way, in a crazy-eight style, with the last loop arching down, the same way she wrote her twos. Whatever grief and upset my exit had caused her three years earlier, it didn’t show here. I could hear the telephone ring in my apartment one story up but couldn’t move. My body felt like lead. My mind swirled with curiosity and worry. Why would my mother be writing me? If someone in the family had been in trouble or seriously ill, she would have called. Or would she? Lory’s parting salvo had made it clear I wouldn’t be someone they would reach out to for help. What would have caused Mom to break The Rules and reach out to me now? Taking a deep breath, I stood up, dropped the letter into my briefcase, and rummaged for my keys. Unlocking the door, I walked up the stairs to my apartment. Once inside, I removed the letter from the briefcase and set it in the center of my coffee table. My two cats, Leo and Tucker, had come to greet me, twisting their bodies around my ankles begging for dinner. One by one I picked them up, as was my custom. The envelope looked back at me. I turned away and walked down the long hall toward the kitchen, beginning the evening routine. I washed my hands and fed the cats. I walked back into the living room to open the French doors and air out the house. The envelope glared at me. The phone rang again, and again I let it go. It was only the envelope and me. I left the room, took a quick shower, and went to the kitchen, tossing leftovers in the oven to warm. Pouring myself a glass of wine, I walked to the living room and settled on the couch. I sensed something unwelcome was about to be thrust upon me. My life was going well. I’d become stronger emotionally and spiritually. The outline of a blessed life was taking shape. Regular visits to a therapist were helping me work through the guilt and heartbreak of my losses, but this was always done on my own terms and in my own time.

• From The Things They Carried (1990)

  And like the time we enlisted an old poppa-san to guide us through the mine fields out on the Batangan Peninsula. The old guy walked with a limp, slow and stooped over, but he knew where the safe spots were and where you had to be careful and where even if you were careful you could end up like popcorn. He had a tightrope walker's feel for the land beneath him—its surface tension, the give and take of things. Each morning we'd form up in a long column, the old poppa-san out front, and for the whole day we'd troop along after him, tracing his footsteps, playing an exact and ruthless game of follow the leader. Rat Kiley made up a rhyme that caught on, and we'd all be chanting it together: Step out of line, hit a mine; follow the dink, you're in the pink. All around us, the place was littered with Bouncing Betties and Toe Poppers and booby-trapped artillery rounds, but in those five days on the Batangan Peninsula nobody got hurt. We all learned to love the old man. It was a sad scene when the choppers came to take us away. Jimmy Cross gave the old poppa-san a hug. Mitchell Sanders and Lee Strunk loaded him up with boxes of C rations. There were actually tears in the old guy's eyes. "Follow dink," he said to each of us, "you go pink." If you weren't humping, you were waiting. I remember the monotony. Digging foxholes. Slapping mosquitoes. The sun and the heat and the endless paddies. Even in the deep bush, where you could die any number of ways, the war was nakedly and aggressively boring. But it was a strange boredom. It was boredom with a twist, the kind of boredom that caused stomach disorders. You'd be sitting at the top of a high hill, the flat paddies stretching out below, and the day would be calm and hot and utterly vacant, and you'd feel the boredom dripping inside you like a leaky faucet, except it wasn't water, it was a sort of acid, and with each little droplet you'd feel the stuff eating away at important organs. You'd try to relax. You'd uncurl your fists and let your thoughts go. Well, you'd think, this isn't so bad. And right then you'd hear gunfire behind you and your nuts would fly up into your throat and you'd be squealing pig squeals. That kind of boredom.

• From The Things They Carried (1990)

  floor of the United States Senate and into the streets, and smart men in pinstripes could not agree on even the most fundamental matters of public policy. The only certainty that summer was moral confusion. It was my view then, and still is, that you don't make war without knowing why. Knowledge, of course, is always imperfect, but it seemed to me that when a nation goes to war it must have reasonable confidence in the justice and imperative of its cause. You can't fix your mistakes. Once people are dead, you can't make them undead. In any case those were my convictions, and back in college I had taken a modest stand against the war. Nothing radical, no hothead stuff, just ringing a few doorbells for Gene McCarthy, composing a few tedious, uninspired editorials for the campus newspaper. Oddly, though, it was almost entirely an intellectual activity. I brought some energy to it, of course, but it was the energy that accompanies almost any abstract endeavor; I felt no personal danger; I felt no sense of an impending crisis in my life. Stupidly, with a kind of smug removal that I can't begin to fathom, I assumed that the problems of killing and dying did not fall within my special province. The draft notice arrived on June 17, 1968. It was a humid afternoon, I remember, cloudy and very quiet, and I'd just come in from a round of golf. My mother and father were having lunch out in the kitchen. I remember opening up the letter, scanning the first few lines, feeling the blood go thick behind my eyes. I remember a sound in my head. It wasn't thinking, just a silent howl. A million things all at once—I was too good for this war. Too smart, too compassionate, too everything. It couldn't happen. I was above it. I had the world dicked—Phi Beta Kappa and summa cum laude and president of the student body and a full-ride scholarship for grad studies at Harvard. A mistake, maybe—a foul-up in the paperwork. I was no soldier. I hated Boy Scouts. I hated camping out. I hated dirt and tents and mosquitoes. The sight of blood made me queasy, and I couldn't tolerate authority, and I didn't know a rifle from a slingshot. I was a /iberal, for Christ sake: If they needed fresh bodies, why not draft some back-to-the- stone-age hawk? Or some dumb jingo in his hard hat and Bomb Hanoi button, or one of LBJ's pretty daughters, or Westmoreland's whole handsome family—nephews and nieces and baby grandson. There should be a law, I thought. If you support a war, if you think it's worth the price, that's fine, but you have to put your own precious fluids on the line. You have to head for the front and hook up with an infantry unit and help spill the blood. And you have to bring along your wife, or your kids, or your lover. A law, I thought.

• From A Greek-English Lexicon (Liddell-Scott) (1957)

  ἀπόκλϊσις, ews, 77, a turning off, declension, as of fortune, Plut. 2. 611 A. II. a descent, dismounting, Ib. 970 1). III. a sinking, of the sun, Id. Aemil. 17 ; of a ship, Id. Pomp. 47. dmoxAiréov, verb. Adj. one must incline, πρός τι Arist. Eth. N. 9. 2, 5. améKAtros, ov, inclined, sinking, Plut. 2. 273 Ὁ. ἀποκλύζω, fut. vow, to wask away, Theophr. C. P. 5. 9, 6:—Pass., Arist. Mund. 5, 12. II. in Med., Diod. 4.51; metaph., ποτίμῳ λόγῳ ἁλμυρὰν ἀκοὴν ἀπ. Plat. Phaedr. 243 D:—hence Zo avert by puri- fications, ὄνειρον Ar. Ran. 1340. ἀπόκλῦσις, 7, a washing off, ἐπικλύσεις καὶ ἀπ. flow and ebb, Themist. 167 B. eA verb, Adj. of ἀποκάμνω, one must grow weary, Plat. Rep. 445 B (as Bekk. for ἀποκνητέον). ἀπόκναισις, ews, 7, affliction, vexation, Hesych. ἀποκναίω, Att. --κνάω, inf. --κνᾶν Plat. Phil. 26 B: aor. -έκναισα Id. Rep. 406 B:—to scrape or rub off, τι Antiph. Incert. 9. II. dmoxv. τινά to wear one out, worry to death, Ar. Eccl. 1087, Plat. 1]. c.; σύ dmoxvales περιπατῶν Menand. Mic. 10; ἀποπναίει yap ἀηδίᾳ δήπου καὶ ἀναισθησίᾳ Dem. 564. 12, Theophr. Char. 7, cf. Dion. H. de Dem. 20 :—Pass. fo be worn out, Plat. Rep. 406 B; εἰσφοραῖς Xen. Hell. 6, 2, 1:—v. Ruhnk. Tim. ἀπ-οκνέω, to shrink from, c. acc., τὸν κίνδυνον Thuc. 3. 20; τὸν πλοῦν Id, 8.12 :—c. inf, to shrink from doing, Id. 4. 11, Plat. Phaedo 84 C, Theaet. 166 B. 2. absol. to shrink back, hesitate, Thuc. 3. 55.» 5 , 9 , αποκνήσις---- αποκρίνω. ἀπόκνησις, ews, ἡ, α shrinking from, στρατειῶν Thuc. 1.99; ἀπ. πρός τι Plut. 2. 783 8. ἀποκνητέον, verb. Adj. of dmoxvéw, Plat. Rep. 349 A, 372 A, Isocr. Lyi E; cf. ἀποκμητέον. ἀποκνίζω, fut. ἔσω, to nip or snip off, τι Hipp. 677. 6, Sotad, Ἔγκλει. 1. 23; ἀπό τινός Diod. 2.43; τινος Plut. 2. 977 B. ἀπόκνϊἴσις, ews, 7, a nipping off, Theophr. C.P. 5.9, 11. ἀπόκνισμα, τό, that which is nipt off, a little bit, Ar. Pax 790. ἀποκογχίζω, to draw out with a κόγχη (signf. τ. 2), Diosc. 1. 33. ἀποκοιμάομαι, Pass. with fut. med. ἥσομαι :—to sleep away from home, Plat. Legg. 762 C; ἐν Λακεδαίμονι Eupol. Toa. to. II. to get a little sleep, Hdt. 8. 76, Ar. Vesp. 213, Xen. Cyr. 2. 4, 22, sq. ;—ap- parently a military phrase, Dobree ad Ar. |. c. Tit. ἀπ. ἀπό τινος to rest, cease from.., Epiphan. ἀποκοιμίζω, to put to sleep, Alciphro 1. 39 :—Pass. ¢o go to sleep, Ep.Socr. ἀποκοινωνέω, to excommunicate ;—and verb. Adj. πητέος, a, ον, to be excommunicated, Eccl. ἀποκοιτέω, Zo sleep away from one’s post, Decret. ap. Dem. 238. 10. ἀπόκοιτος, ov, sleeping away from, τῶν συσσίτων Aeschin. 45.2; οὐκ ἀπ. παρὰ Ῥέας Luc. Ὁ. Deor. Io. 2. ἀποκολλάω, to unglue, disunite, Eunap. ap. Suid., Oribas. ap. Cocch. 82: to strip off, τί Twos Eust. 854. 33.

• From A Greek-English Lexicon (Liddell-Scott) (1957)

  ἄ-πορος, ov, first in Hdt. and Pind. (v. infr.), without passage, having no way in, out, or through, and so, I. of places, impassable, pathless, trackless, πέλαγος, πηλός Plat. Tim. 25 Ὁ, Criti. 108 E; ὁδός, ποταμός, ὄρος Xen. An. 2. 4, 4., 2. 5, 18, εἴς. II. of states or circumstances, hard to see one’s way through, impracticable, very difficult, like ἀμήχανος, Hdt. 5. 3, and Att.; ἄπ. ἀλγηδών, πάθος Soph. O. C. 513, Ph. 854; τἄπορον ἔπος Id. Ph. 897; ἄπ. χρῆμα Eur. Or. 70; ἀγών, κίνδυνος Lys. 108. 25., 111. 38; αἰσχύνη Plat. Legg. 873 C; Bios Menand. Kid. 1. 10; νύξ Longin. 9. 10 :---ἄπορον, τό, and ἄπορα, τά, as Subst., ἐκ τῶν ἀπόρων in the midst of their difficulties, Hdt. 8. 53, Plat. Legg. 699 B; εὔπορος ἐν τοῖς ἀπόροις Alex. Τραυμ. 2 (cf. ἄπορα πόριμος Aesch. Pr. 904); ἐν ἀπόροις εἶναι to be in great straits, Xen. An. 7. 6, II; εἰς ἄπορον ἥκειν, πίπτειν Eur. Hel. 813, Ar. Nub. 703; ἐν ἀπόρῳ εἴχοντο, ἦσαν they were at a loss how to.., Thue. I. 25., 3. 22:— ἄπορόν [ἐστι] c. inf., Pind. O. 10 (11). 48, Thuc. 2.77, etc.; so, amopa [ἐστι] Pind. Ο. 1. 82:—Comp., -wrepos ἡ λῆψις Thuc. 5. IIo. 2. ἀπ. ἐρωτήσεις, -- ἀπορίαι (signf. 111), Plut. Alex. 64, Luc. D. Mort. το. 8; ζήτησις Plat. Polit. 284 Ὁ. 8. hard to get, scarce, opp. to εὐπό- ριστος Id. Rep. 378 A, 453 D; ἄπορα [ὀφλήματα] bad debts, Dem. 1209. 7. III. of persons, hard to deal with, troublesome, un- manageable, Hdt. 3. 52, Eur. Bacch. 800, Plat. Apol. 18 Ὁ, al.: Ἢ. inf., ἄπ. προσμίσγειν, προσφέρεσθαι impossible to have any dealings with, Hdt. 4. 46., 9. 49;—-so, βορῆς ἄνεμος ἄπ. against whom nothing will avail, which there is no opposing, 1d. 6. 44. 2. without means or re- sources, helpless, ἔρημος, ἄπορος Soph. O. C. 1735, cf. Ar. Nub. 629, etc. ; ἄπορος ἐπὶ φρόνιμα Soph. O. T. 691; ἐπ᾽ οὐδέν Id. Ant. 360; ἄπορος γνώμῃ Thuc. 2.59; of soldiers, of ἀπορώτατοι the most helpless, worst equipt, Id. 4. 32 (which others take in signf. 1, hardest to deal with, v. Schol.). 3. poor, needy, Lat. inops, Thuc. 1. 9, Plat. Rep. 552A; opp. to εὔπορος, Arist. Pol. 3. 7, 5.» 4. 4, 22, al.; ἄπ. λειτουργεῖν too poor to undertake liturgies, Lys. 188. I :—also of states of life, scanty, ἄπ. δίαιτα Plat. Legg. 762 E. IV. Adv. ἀπόρως, Simon. 75, etc.; ἀπ. ἔχει μοί Eur. 1. T. 55; περί τινος Antipho 111. 35; ἀπ. ἔχειν, c. inf., Dion. H. 6. 14; ἀπόρως διατεθῆναι Lys. 151. 24: Comp. O2 196 -wrepov Thuc. 1. 82; but -wrépws διακεῖσθαι Antipho 121. 16; Sup. -πώτατα, Plat. Tim. 51 A, etc.

• From A Greek-English Lexicon (Liddell-Scott) (1957)

  ὑπ-οψία, Ion. -tn, ἡ: (ὑφοράω, fut. ὑπόψομαι) : 1. of the subject, suspicion, jealousy, ὑποψίην ἔχειν Hdt. 9. 99; ἔς τινα Id. 3. 52, cf. Antipho 116. 36 sq., Thuc. 4. 27, Andoc. 9. 41; τὰ ἴχνη τῆς bm. φέ- ροντα eis τινα Antipho 119.8 ; ὑποψίας μεστός Lys. 93.17; ὑπ. πρός τινα Dem. 1172. 10, Plut. Cic. 43; ὑπ. λαμβάνειν κατά τινος Dem. 852. 2; ὑπέρ τινος Plut. 2. 1092 A; ἐν ὑπ. ποιεῖσθαίΐ τι Aeschin. 2. 19; ἐν ὑπ., δι᾽ ὑποψίας ἔχειν τινά Plut. Pyrrh. 23, Cato Ma. 23; ὑπ. γίγνεται, εἰσ- épxerat τιν: Thuc. 2. 13, Plat. Lys. 218C; εἰς ὑπ. καθιστάναι τινά to bring him into suspicion, Thuc. 5. 29; ὑποψίαν πρὸς ἀλλήλους ποιεῖν Lys. 174. 27; opp. to eis ὑπ. ἐμπεσεῖν, Antipho 116. 37. 2. of the object, ἔχειν ὑπ. to admit of suspicion, Plat. Phaedo 84.C; ὑπ. ἐνδι- δόναι ὡς .. Id. Legg. 887 E; ὑπ. παρέχειν Thuc. 1. 132; bm. παρέχειν μὴ εἶναί τι Plat. Menex. 247 E. II. a jealous, censorious watch, ἡ πρὸς ἀλλήλους τῶν ἐπιτηδευμάτων ὑπ. Thuc. 2. 37. ὑποψιαστικῶς, suspiciously, Paroemiogr., Schol. Ar. Vesp. 641. ὑποψτθυρίζω, to whisper softly, Eumath. 1. 8: -ψιθύρισμα, τό, Walz Rhett. 1. 640. ὑπόψτλος, somewhat bald, Ptol. , ὑπ-όψιος, ov, (ὑφοράω, fut. ὑπόψομαι) viewed from beneath the brows, i.e. viewed with suspicious looks, ὑπόψιος ἄλλων Il. 3. 42 (where, how- ever, Ar. and Hdn. read ἐπόψιος), Q. Sm. 13. 289. ΤΙ. under the eye or view, conspicuous, Opp. H. 1. 30. ὑποψοφέω, to make a slight noise, ἐν τοῖς ποτοῖσι Hipp. Coac. 120; ὑπ. καὶ ὑπηχεῖν Ael. N. A. 6. 243 cf. Nake Choer. p. 250. ὑποψυχραίνω, to make somewhat cold, Eccl. ὑπόψυχρος, ov, somewhat cold, coolish, Hipp. Epid. 1. 954. 2. chilling, Id. Acut. 394. 8. metaph., of τὴν ἕξιν ὑπ. Philostr. Gymn. p.4 Kays.; κωμικοί frigid, Suid. 5. ν. Λύκις. ὑποψύχομαι [Ὁ]. Pass. fo cool a little, Ath. 297 A, Eccl. ὑπ-οψωνέω, to underbid in the purchase of victuals or to buy up under- hand, Ar. Ach. 842. ὑποψωρώδης, ες, (εἶδος) somewhat itchy or mangy, Hipp. 1127 C. ὑπτίαζω, fut. dow: (ὕπτιος) :—to lay oneself back, fall back, Hdn. τ. 4, Eust.; ὑπτιάζων βόλος an wnlucky cast, opp. to mpavys, Poll. 7. 204. II. metaph., of haughty persons, fo carry one’s head high, carry one’s chin in the air, Aeschin. 18. 34. 2. to be supine, careless or negligent, Hdn. 2. 12, etc. ; πρός τι Id. 2. ὃ. B. trans. ee ee ene Smear err a 1645 κάρα yap ὑπτιάζεται his head 7165 supine, Soph, Ph. 822; ὑπτιαζόμενοι lying on their backs, Joseph. B. J. 3. 7, 29 ;—of land, to slope evenly (cf. ὕπτιος TV), Ib. 5. 5, 6. II. metaph. to make haughty, lo. Lyd. de Mag. 2. 26. ὑπτίᾶσις, ἡ, -- ὑπτιασμός, Oribas. 71 Matth.

• From The Things They Carried (1990)

  One morning in late July, while we were out on patrol near LZ Gator, Lee Strunk and Dave Jensen got into a fistfight. It was about something stupid—a missing jackknife—but even so the fight was vicious. For a while it went back and forth, but Dave Jensen was much bigger and much stronger, and eventually he wrapped an arm around Strunk's neck and pinned him down and kept hitting him on the nose. He hit him hard. And he didn't stop. Strunk's nose made a sharp snapping sound, like a firecracker, but even then Jensen kept hitting him, over and over, quick stiff punches that did not miss. It took three of us to pull him off. When it was over, Strunk had to be choppered back to the rear, where he had his nose looked after, and two days later he rejoined us wearing a metal splint and lots of gauze. In any other circumstance it might've ended there. But this was Vietnam, where guys carried guns, and Dave Jensen started to worry. It was mostly in his head. There were no threats, no vows of revenge, just a silent tension between them that made Jensen take special precautions. On patrol he was careful to keep track of Strunk's whereabouts. He dug his foxholes on the far side of the perimeter; he kept his back covered; he avoided situations that might put the two of them alone together. Eventually, after a week of this, the strain began to create problems. Jensen couldn't relax. Like fighting two different wars, he said. No safe ground: enemies everywhere. No front or rear. At night he had trouble sleeping—a skittish feeling— always on guard, hearing strange noises in the dark, imagining a grenade rolling into his foxhole or the tickle of a knife against his ear. The distinction between good guys and bad guys disappeared for him. Even in times of relative safety, while the rest of us took it easy, Jensen would be sitting with his back against a stone wall, weapon across his knees, watching Lee Strunk with quick, nervous eyes. It got to the point finally where he lost control. Something must've snapped. One afternoon he began firing his weapon into the air, yelling Strunk's name, just firing and yelling, and it didn't stop until he'd rattled off an entire magazine of ammunition. We were all flat on the ground. Nobody had the nerve to go near him. Jensen started to reload, but then suddenly he sat down and held his head in his arms and wouldn't move. For two or three hours he simply sat there. But that wasn't the bizarre part. Because late that same night he borrowed a pistol, gripped it by the barrel, and used it like a hammer to break his own nose. Afterward, he crossed the perimeter to Lee Strunk's foxhole. He showed him what he'd done and asked if everything was square between them. Strunk nodded and said, Sure, things were square.

• From Shunned (2018)

  We started spending time together, either with groups of friends, or “alone” in public places, like restaurants. The Watch-tower Society discouraged single people of the opposite sex from spending time truly alone, which could lead to temptation and the sin of premarital sex. As I found myself falling in love with Ross, I appreciated the wisdom of chaperones. I had every intention of being a virgin when I married, and the sexual attraction I felt on first meeting Ross only grew as we spent time together. Thankfully, we had many friends in common, so group activities, such as skiing and going to movies, were not difficult to organize. My actions soon made it clear that I was not a tried-and-true member of the Triple A Club. Ross was working full-time for a maintenance-and-construction company while I kept busy pioneering, conducting Bible studies with interested people in the community, and working to cover modest expenses. When we spoke about the future, we included the possibility of pioneering or applying to Bethel as a couple. That made it easier for me to set aside my plans to go solo, dismissing them as distant and unlikely. Within four months we were engaged, and in another four months we were married. During our engagement, I experienced bouts of restlessness, sensing how far I was drifting from my dreams in which I ventured out as a single young woman; learned a new language; and traveled the world, preaching, teaching, and serving others while having grand adventures: ministering to children under tropical palms or reading soothing Bible verses to the destitute victims of heartless warlords in faraway lands. As I got to know Ross, I realized the emotional accessibility I originally found so attractive masked mood swings and self-doubt. I lacked the maturity to help him through those rough patches and often resented the need to. I contemplated breaking the engagement or postponing the wedding. We were both twenty-one years old. When I allowed myself to think about our inexperience, I got scared, sometimes waking in the middle of the night to full- throttle panic. We had very few financial resources between us, as we were both living paycheck to paycheck, and I didn’t believe the myth that two can live as inexpensively as one. One month before the wedding, I shared my doubts with one of the elders who knew us both. He listened and, while assuring me it was not too late to back out, reminded me that doing so would break a sacred vow, a promise. Hadn’t Jesus taught us to let our yes mean yes?

• From Shunned (2018)

  Whenever the sadness was too much, I could pace myself or wriggle out of the discomfort, seizing upon some distraction from the long list available to me. But this letter could not be avoided. I opened the envelope to find a card with a photograph of the tulip fields of Oregon’s Willamette Valley, the ones we always passed when driving to the Assembly Hall in Woodburn twice a year. Inside was written: Dear Linda, This is to let you know that I will be making a business trip to Indiana next month and will be passing through Chicago. I want to see you on my way back, which will be Saturday, October 11. I will call you that morning at your house. I wanted you to know this so you don’t go into shock when I call. Looking forward to seeing you! Love, Mom I felt like all the blood was draining out of my body, leaving me deflated and lifeless, like a leaky inner tube. I leaned back on the couch and stared across the room. Leo walked in, his tail up high, the end curled around in a question mark. Was she really looking forward to seeing me? Or was I being summoned for a grilling? She had given me one week’s notice. How should I prepare? Looking around my living room, I saw the furnishings through my mother’s eyes. She would be impressed by the arched doorways, my choice of colors, and the layout. I would take her out the French doors to the balcony and show her the flower garden I had nurtured through a Chicago summer. She’d be surprised to find such a peaceful place in the middle of the city. If things went well between us and I was feeling vulnerable and brave, I might tell her how I’d felt connected to her when I planted those flowers, despite our estrangement. I imagined her commenting on the impressionist painting hung above the television or the Venetian mask on a side wall, giving me an opening to tell her about my trips to France and Italy, where I’d purchased them. She would scan the framed photographs on top of the piano and see me with my new friends caught in various moments of fun and celebration. Through the photos, I could introduce her to everyone who now mattered in my life. There was the photograph of David and me in my kitchen after Thanksgiving dinner, surrounded by dirty dishes, toasting each other. We had hosted a meal for all our single friends, people like us with no family in town. Steve was there, and Geoff even flew in. When the feast was over we all played a contentious game of charades, with everyone yelling and screaming over each other. Later we strolled the neighborhood in a tryptophan haze while David and Geoff smoked cigars.

• From The Things They Carried (1990)

  In February we were working an area of operations called the Rocket Pocket, which got its name from the fact that the enemy sometimes used the place to launch rocket attacks on the airfield at Chu Lai. But for us it was like a two-week vacation. The AO lay along the South China Sea, where things had the feel of a resort, with white beaches and palm trees and friendly little villages. It was a quiet time. No casualties, no contact at all. As usual, though, the higher-ups couldn't leave well enough alone, and one afternoon an Army dentist was choppered in to check our teeth and do minor repair work. He was a tall, skinny young captain with bad breath. For a half hour he lectured us on oral hygiene, demonstrating the proper flossing and brushing techniques, then afterward he opened up shop in a small field tent and we all took turns going in for personal exams. At best it was a very primitive setup. There was a battery-powered drill, a canvas cot, a bucket of sea water for rinsing, a metal suitcase full of the various instruments. It amounted to assembly-line dentistry, quick and impersonal, and the young captain's main concern seemed to be the clock. As we Sat waiting, Curt Lemon began to tense up. He kept fidgeting, playing with his dog tags. Finally somebody asked what the problem was, and Lemon looked down at his hands and said that back in high school he'd had a couple of bad experiences with dentists. Real sadism, he said. Torture chamber stuff. He didn't mind blood or pain—he actually enjoyed combat— but there was something about a dentist that just gave him the creeps. He glanced over at the field tent and said, "No way. Count me out. Nobody messes with these teeth." But a few minutes later, when the dentist called his name, Lemon stood up and walked into the tent. It was over fast. He fainted even before the man touched him.

• From The Things They Carried (1990)

  "God's truth," Mitchell Sanders said. "A six-man patrol goes up into the mountains on a basic listening-post operation. The idea's to spend a week up there; just lie low and listen for enemy movement. They've got a radio along, so if they hear anything suspicious—anything—they're supposed to call in artillery or gunships, whatever it takes. Otherwise they keep strict field discipline. Absolute silence. They just listen." Sanders glanced at me to make sure I had the scenario. He was playing with his yo-yo, dancing it with short, tight strokes of the wrist. His face was blank in the dusk. "We're talking regulation, by-the-book LP. These six guys, they don't say boo for a solid week. They don't got tongues. A// ears." "Right," I said. "Understand me?" "Invisible." Sanders nodded. "Affirm," he said. "Invisible. So what happens is, these guys get themselves deep in the bush, all camouflaged up, and they lie down and wait and that's all they do, nothing else, they lie there for seven straight days and just listen. And man, I'll tell you—tt's spooky. This is mountains. You don't know spooky till you been there. Jungle, sort of, except it's way up in the clouds and there's always this fog—tlike rain, except it's not raining—everything's all wet and swirly and tangled up and you can't see jack, you can't find your own pecker to piss with. Like you don't even have a body. Serious spooky. You just go with the vapors—the fog sort of takes you in ... And the sounds, man. The sounds carry forever. You hear stuff nobody should ever hear. Sanders was quiet for a second, just working the yo-yo, then he smiled at me. "So after a couple days the guys start hearing this real soft, kind of wacked-out music. Weird echoes and stuff. Like a radio or something, but it's not a radio, it's this strange gook music that comes right out of the rocks. Faraway, sort of, but right up close, too. They try to ignore it. But it's a listening post, right? So they listen. And every night they keep hearing that crazyass gook concert. All kinds of chimes and xylophones. I mean, this is wilderness—no way, it can't be real—but there it is, like the mountains are tuned in to Radio fucking Hanoi. Naturally they get nervous. One guy sticks Juicy Fruit in his ears. Another guy almost flips. Thing is, though, they can't report music. They can't get on the horn and call back to base and say, 'Hey, listen, we need some firepower, we got to blow away this weirdo gook rock band.' They can't do that. It wouldn't go down. So they lie there in the fog and keep their mouths shut. And what makes it extra bad, see, is the poor dudes can't horse around like normal. Can't joke it away. Can't even talk to each other except maybe in whispers, all hush-hush, and that just revs up the willies. All they do is listen."

• From Martin Luther (2016)

  They were not to do with sexual desire but concerned what Luther called “the real knots”—his struggles with faith. So apparently untroubled was he by his sexuality that he unabashedly mentioned experiencing nocturnal emissions, which he simply dismissed as physical phenomena. For him, true “concupiscence of the flesh” was not primarily lust but concerned bad feelings toward a brother, such as envy, anger, or hate. 29 Luther worried at this time about his relations with others: Living in a monastic community, where he had to get on with the same small group of people all the time, could not have been easy. It may well have reawakened in him feelings of jealousy and anxieties about the envy of others that sprang from childhood relations with his siblings. Whatever the reasons, it was not lusts of the flesh, but Luther’s troubled relationship with God the Father that lay at the heart of his distress. These temptations or tribulations would continue all his life and they are fundamental to understanding Luther’s religiosity. For the first year in the monastery, he recalled, they did not trouble him; later he had a rest from them when he got married and had “a good time,” before they returned once more. During his time as a monk, the Anfechtungen seem to have chiefly concerned the idea that if he was a sinner, and if God was a judge, then God must hate him. The Anfechtungen were the corollary of his growing sense that there were no intermediaries, that nothing stood between the believer and God, and that nothing could be done to make the sinner acceptable. Looking back on these experiences in 1531 he concluded that the Anfechtungen were also necessary, for they set him on his path that would lead to the Reformation. He added a wry reminiscence about his superior Staupitz, who had remarked that he himself had never experienced temptations of this kind, “but, as I see, they are more necessary to you than eating and drinking.” 30 By the time Luther had left the monastery and broken with the Church of Rome, the Anfechtungen were more clearly centered on his battle with the Devil, though they still took physical form. He suffered from fits of ringing in the ears, sure that they were a diabolic attack. As he grew older, he confided to trusted companions about his temptations. Complaining in 1529 to a friend in Breslau that he had suffered headaches, nausea, and a dull noise in his ears for eight days, he wondered “whether it was exhaustion or a temptation of Satan.”

• From Martin Luther (2016)

  He had been happy to agree during the Augsburg negotiations that Anabaptists, like sacramentarians, should be treated as heretics, but until then he had also consistently maintained that no one should be executed for their faith; heretics would suffer in hell, and only if they were guilty of insurrection and rejecting secular authority were they to be punished. 14 But Melanchthon, in line with the imperial mandate against Anabaptists of 1528, began to take the view that all Anabaptists were guilty of the crime of sedition, and that secular authorities ought to punish Anabaptists “on body,” rather than just with fines. While Luther still argued in 1528 that Anabaptists should not be executed, because “[i]t is not right, and it pains me greatly, that people kill, murder and burn these poor folk so horribly,” by February Melanchthon had begun to advocate their execution, and the following year Luther was agreeing that “although it seems cruel to punish them with the sword, they themselves are being even more cruel in damning the ministry of the Word.” 15 Even if Luther felt queasy about it, he did not object to harsh punishment. When Fritz Erbe in the village of Herda near Eisenach refused to baptize his son in 1531, he was jailed. Imprisoned a second time in 1533, his fame spread and he became something of a celebrity in the town, so he was moved to the Wartburg, where Luther had stayed after the Diet of Worms. Here he was held in isolation from 1540 until his death in 1548, in a prison cell underground. Luther would have known about Erbe and his miserable fate. 16 Then, in 1534, a group of Anabaptists actually gained power in Münster, with consequences that would appall contemporaries. Reform had started there in a fairly conventional manner. As in so many towns across the empire, Lutherans had grown in numbers and been successful in council elections. But what had begun as a politically conservative Lutheran reformation suddenly changed as the leading preacher Bernhard Rothmann fell under the influence of sacramentarianism, and began to espouse a radical populism.

• From Martin Luther (2016)

  Committed to the communal Reformation, he rejected everything that smacked of priestly tyranny—the elevation of the Host, Communion in one kind, confession before Communion, the priest placing the wafer in the communicant’s mouth—while his admiration of mysticism, prophecy, and the power of the spirit enabled him to be more open to women’s role in the Church. 59 Aiming to escape his intellectual formation, and to reach for a purer emotional mysticism, he found his outlook difficult to express within the constraints of a traditionally written and argued pamphlet, the form at which Luther excelled. He tried several other genres, including dialogues, in which he put words into the mouths of his opponents so that he could refute them, but as he rejected images, and was neither a poet nor musician, he had no other practical outlet. While Luther’s rhetorical style was becoming ever clearer and more rebarbative, Karlstadt pushed the pamphlet format to its limit, eschewing intellectual, linear thinking. The result was a manner of writing that seems unfinished and obscure. So, for example, he could write in The Meaning of the Term “Gelassen”: “However, we must be on guard constantly that this same yielded egoism or self-absorption is seriously judged and surrendered, for the Devil sits in wait of unsurrendered yieldedness as a fox looks out for chickens which he plans to devour.” 60 He is clearly striving for emotional honesty as well as memorable imagery, but achieves this at the cost of clarity. The suffering and rejection Karlstadt experienced—Luther had made him feel “anxiety, envy, hatred, and disgrace”—enabled him to reach Gelassenheit . 61 As he wrote in a dialogue that dealt line by line with Luther’s Against the Heavenly Prophets: “Through such suffering we must subdue, break, and subordinate to the spirit our untamed flesh in order to assist hope, strengthen faith, and firm up the word. For tribulation brings about patience and patience leads to a certain knowledge and experience.” This, he insisted, had nothing to do with the “works of love,” the self-mortification and asceticism practiced by the monks, with which Luther identified his ideas. 62 What both men had in common, however, is that they invoked experience. For Luther, the story of his heroic stance at Worms was proof that he alone was the touchstone of truth, while Karlstadt regarded his own persecution and suffering as unique. It was something that Luther, living in his secure professorship in Wittenberg, could never understand. Thus the dispute between Luther and Karlstadt was personal as well as intellectual, reflecting both men’s understanding of their individual history and destiny. 63 Luther’s sacramental theology did not determine his moral theology, but the two were of a piece.

• From Lit: A Memoir (2009)

  Whoever eats the biggest shit sandwich wins, and I’m playing to justify the fact that I’d rather drink than love. The times Dev’s spiked a fever, I shook Warren awake and—fearing meningitis—we tore to Children’s Hospital. With medicine, it’d take Dev a week or so to stop coughing himself awake most nights. Then a week to stop nightly wakings, then here came the next cold, invariably flaming into a fever. The doctors agree the infections and fevers are strange but not unheard of. By every yardstick, my strapping son is a developmental champ. His bounce is boundless, but my limbs are filled with lead pellets, and my head has started to scramble like an anthill. Another series of whooping lands a hammer blow to my sternum, and I jerk upright. It’s the reflexive, automatic move from some gore-fest movie—that last scene when the butchered killer you think has finally bitten it jolts up. My arm wheels over to smack off the baby monitor. Then, lacking the will to rise (3:07), I plummet back down like a shot bird. The cough penetrates my dream with the sandpapered force of a chain-smoking speed freak. It’s Daddy’s pneumonia-laden cough, Mother’s emphysema wheeze. Even without the monitor, I can hear the hacking gasps start. My body’s a sandbag, but my eyelids split open like clam shells (3:10). On the table, a tumbler of mahogany whiskey burns bright as any flaming oil slick. Gone a little watery on top, it’s still possessed of a golden nimbus. That’s the secret to getting up: the glass talks and my neck cranes toward the drink like flower to sunbeam. My heavy skull rises, throbbing with a pulse beat. I grab the drink and let a long gulp burn a corridor through the sludge that runs up the middle of me—that trace of fire my sole brightness. A drink once brought ease, a bronze warmth spreading through all my muddy regions. Now it only brings a brief respite from the bone ache of craving it, no more delicious numbness. Slurping these spirits is soul preparation, a warped communion, myself serving as god, priest, and congregation. I rise on rickety legs, dripping sweat despite the air conditioner’s blast across my naked chest. Forgoing bathrobe, I pull on a wife-beater T-shirt. (3:15!) In the next room, my son, stout but saggy-kneed, clings to the crib bars like a prisoner. Menthol steam from the vaporizer has made a ghost of him. His ringlets are plastered to his head, and coughs rack his small frame. The animal suffering that’s rattling him throws ice water on me, and I enjoy a surge of unalloyed love for him, followed by panic, followed by guilt . He sees me rushing toward him and abruptly drops his outstretched arms an instant to say, No pants? His head’s tilted with bald curiosity.

• From Lit: A Memoir (2009)

  after that, we’ll get engaged. But before any of that, I have to meet the family, and boy am I eager, facing the task with a peasant girl’s bouncy determination to wow people not overimpressed by much. The final miles Warren’s tiny car putters, I hold a compact in one hand and a mascara wand in the other, globbing on lashes. (Little did I know my mother’s advice—You can never wear too much mascara—is, in this company, deeply wrong.) We pass through wrought-iron gates, and I look up, wand in hand, to ask, Is this a subdivision? This is my house, he says. It’s a testament to Warren’s reticence that he’s failed to mention the place is posh enough to sport a baronial-sounding name without seeming ridiculous: Fairweather Hall. There’s a separate wing for the live-in staff, severely reduced now that the six children are gone. If I remember right, the gardener even grew up on the estate since his father had been Mr. Whitbread’s valet in law school—sounding like a Chekhov serf to me. After Warren parks, I gawk my way from the car, jaw unhinged, about to burst out with a ghetto goddamn. Why didn’t you tell me about all this? I ask. Tell you about what? he wonders, completely sincere, for he’s never less than sincere, which partly informs my devotion. I already know how Warren shrinks from show. When people ask where he went to college, he’ll avoid dropping the H-bomb as long as possible, though I’d have tattooed it on my forehead. That ivy-scribbled house has a fairy-tale quality, with gardens sprawled around it and long, vaulted windows you could drive a Buick through. Plus a door bigger than my daddy’s bass boat, with a bronze knocker, even. The uniformed Irish maid waits outside to help us with our bags, which Warren refuses, partly because she’s at least seventy and no taller than five feet. They call her Kelley, though it’s her last name, and I’ll later find out she was deputized to take Warren trick-or-treating when he was a kid, with a sheet over her head and a bag for her own candy. Odd, I thought, my parents hadn’t taken me around, either. (Though the Whitbreads’ offhand parenting style was light-years from my family’s, both Warren and I grew up yearning for a warmer home than where we’d started.) I don’t have the sense not to hug whoever greets us, so I try to throw my arms around Kelley, and she flinches away, straightening her apron. Facing the big house, I’d like to say I’m neither wowed nor panicky, but I feel like a field hand called out of the cotton. Would you like some tea? Kelley asks. Yes, please, Warren says, closing the door. The foyer, a crystal chandelier like a sparkly jungle gym hangs from the two-story ceiling. Two dogs waggle around us, which Warren pats and baby- talks to while I stare. Cloudily mirrored alcoves hold Chinese vases.