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 335 of 501 · 20 per page

• From Post Office (1971)

  Then I turned, got down on my knees and began rerouting the letters and magazines. It’s a job without a case. Twenty minutes later I had the mail up. I stuck some letters in the lock box, dropped the magazines on the porch, locked the box, turned, looked at the screen door again. Still not a sound. I finished the route, walking along, thinking, well, he’ll phone and tell Jonstone that I threatened him. When I get in I better be ready for the worst. I swung the door open and there was The Stone at his desk, reading something. I stood there, looking down at him, waiting. The Stone glanced up at me, then down at what he was reading. I kept standing there, waiting. The Stone kept reading. “Well,” I finally said, “what about it?” “What about what?” The Stone looked up. “ABOUT THE PHONE CALL! TELL ME ALL ABOUT THE PHONE CALL! DON’T JUST SIT THERE!” “What phone call?” “You didn’t get a phone call about me?” “A phone call? What happened? What have you been doing out there? What did you do?” “Nothing.” I walked over and checked my stuff in. The guy hadn’t phoned in. No grace on his part. He probably thought I would come back if he phoned in. I walked past The Stone on my way back to the case. “What did you do out there, Chinaski?” “Nothing.” My act so confused The Stone that he forgot to tell me I was 30 minutes late or write me up for it. 16I was casing next to G.G. early one morning. That’s what they called him: G.G. His actual name was George Greene. But for years he was simply called G.G. and after a while he looked like G.G. He had been a carrier since his early twenties and now he was in his late sixties. His voice was gone. He didn’t speak. He croaked. And when he croaked, he didn’t say much. He was neither liked nor disliked. He was just there. His face had wrinkled into strange runs and mounds of unattractive flesh. No light shone from his face. He was just a hard old crony who had done his job: G.G. The eyes looked like dull bits of clay dropped into the eye sockets. It was best if you didn’t think about him or look at him. But G.G., having all that seniority had one of the easiest routes, right out on the fringe of the rich district. In fact, you might call it the rich district. Although the houses were old, they were large, most of them two stories high. Wide lawns mowed and kept green by Japanese gardeners. Some movie stars lived there. A famous cartoonist. A best-selling writer. Two former governors. Nobody ever spoke to you in that area. You never saw anybody.

• From Post Office (1971)

  I wouldn’t have to ring a doorbell and ask somebody the way back to the post office garage. I could hear some fucker snarling from his warm frontroom: “Well, well. You’re a post office employee, aren’t you? Don’t you know the way back to your own garage?” So I drove along, lighting matches, leaping into whirlpools of water and emptying collection boxes. I was tired and wet and hungover, but I was usually that way and I waded through the weariness like I did the water. I kept thinking of a hot bath, Betty’s fine legs, and—something to keep me going—a picture of myself in an easychair, drink in hand, the dog walking up, me patting his head. But that was a long way off. The stops on the clipboard seemed endless and when I reached the bottom it said, “Over” and I flipped the board and sure enough, there on the backside was another list of stops. With the last match I made the last stop, deposited my mail at the station indicated, and it was a load , and then drove back toward the West Garage. It was in the west end of town and in the west the land was very flat, the drainage system couldn’t handle the water and anytime it rained any length of time at all, they had what was called a “flood.” The description was accurate. Driving on in, the water rose higher and higher. I noticed stalled and abandoned cars all around. Too bad. All I wanted was to get in that chair with that glass of scotch in my hand and watch Betty’s ass wobble around the room. Then at a signal I met Tom Moto, one of the other Jonstone subs. “Which way you going in?” Moto asked. “The shortest distance between two points, I was taught, is a straight line,” I answered him. “You better not,” he told me. “I know that area. It’s an ocean through there.” “Bullshit,” I said, “all it takes is a little guts. Got a match?” I lit up and left him at the signal. Betty, baby, I’m coming! Yeah. The water got higher and higher but mail trucks are built high off the ground. I took the shortcut through the residential neighborhood, full speed, and water flew up all around me. It continued to rain, hard. There weren’t any cars around. I was the only moving object. Betty baby. Yeah. Some guy standing on his front porch laughed at me and yelled, “THE MAIL MUST GO THROUGH!” I cursed him and gave him the finger. I noticed that the water was rising above the floorboards, whirling around my shoes, but I kept driving. Only three blocks to go! Then the truck stopped. Oh. Oh. Shit. I sat there and tried to kick it over. It started once, then stalled. Then it wouldn’t respond. I sat there looking at the water. It must have been two feet deep. What was I supposed to do?

• From Post Office (1971)

  You picked up a truck at West Garage and a clipboard. The clipboard told you what streets, what time you were to be there, and how to get to the next pickup box. Like 2:32 p.m., Beecher and Avalon, L3 R2 (which meant left three blocks, right two) 2:35 p.m., and you wondered how you could pick up one box, then drive five blocks in three minutes and be finished cleaning out another box. Sometimes it took you over three minutes to clean out a Sunday box. And the boards weren’t accurate. Sometimes they counted an alley as a street and sometimes they counted a street as an alley. You never knew where you were. It was one of those continuous rains, not hard, but it never stopped. The territory I was driving was new to me but at least it was light enough to read the clipboard. But as it got darker it was harder to read (by the dashboard light) or locate the pickup boxes. Also the water was rising in the streets, and several times I had stepped into water up to my ankles. Then the dashboard light went out. I couldn’t read the clipboard. I had no idea where I was. Without the clipboard I was like a man lost in the desert. But the luck wasn’t all bad—yet. I had two boxes of matches and before I made for each new pickup box, I would light a match, memorize the directions and drive on. For once, I had outwitted Adversity, that Jonstone up there in the sky, looking down, watching me. Then I took a corner, leaped out to unload the box and when I got back the clipboard was GONE! Jonstone in the Sky, have Mercy! I was lost in the dark and the rain. Was I some kind of idiot, actually? Did I make things happen to myself? It was possible. It was possible that I was subnormal, that I was lucky just to be alive. The clipboard had been wired to the dashboard. I figured it must have flown out of the truck on the last sharp turn. I got out of the truck with my pants rolled up around my knees and started wading through a foot of water. It was dark. I’d never find the god damned thing! I walked along, lighting matches—but nothing, nothing. It had floated away. As I reached the corner I had sense enough to notice which way the current was moving and follow it. I saw an object floating along, lit a match, and there it WAS! The clipboard. Impossible! I could have kissed the thing. I waded back to the truck, got in, rolled my pantlegs down and really wired that board to the dash. Of course, I was way behind schedule by then but at least I’d found their dirty clipboard. I wasn’t lost in the backstreets of Nowhere.

• From Confessions of a Mask (1958)

  I had an uncomfortable suspicion that Nature had come to reconquer the earth for herself. Certainly there was something unusual about this spring's brilliance. The yellow of the rape blossoms, the green of the young grass, the fresh-looking black trunks of the cherry trees, the canopy of heavy blossoms that bent the branches low —all these were reflected in my eyes as vivid colors tinged with malevolence. It seemed to be a conflagration of colors. One day several of us walked along on the grass between the rows of cherry trees and the banks of the pond, arguing some nonsensical legal theory as we went. At the time I was fond of the irony of Professor Y's lectures on international law. In the very midst of the air raids, there the professor was, broad-mindedly continuing his seemingly endless lectures about the League of Nations. I felt as though I were listening to lectures on mahjong or chess. Peace! peace!—I could not believe that this bell-like sound which was perpetually tolling in the distance was anything more than a ringing in my ears. "But isn't it a question of the absolute nature of real-property claims?" suggested A, continuing our discussion. Although this countrified student seemed to be a strapping fellow with a healthy complexion, an advanced case of lung seepage had saved him from being drafted. "Let's cut out such foolish talk," broke in B. He was a pale student and, as could be told at a glance, was suffering from tuberculosis. "In the air enemy planes, on the ground law-humph!" I laughed scornfully. "Is this what you mean by glory in the heavens and peace on earth?" I was the only one who did not have genuine lung trouble. I was pretending instead that I had a bad heart. In those days one had to have either medals or illness. Suddenly we were brought to a halt by the sound of someone walking nearby in the grass under the cherry trees. That person also seemed to have been startled by our approach. It was a young man wearing soiled work clothes and wooden clogs. One could tell he was young only from the color of the close-cropped hair that could be seen beneath his field cap; his muddy complexion, his sparse beard, his oil-smeared hands and feet, and his grimy neck, all indicated a wretched tiredness unsuitable to his years. Obliquely behind the boy there stood a girl, who stared at the ground and seemed to be sulking.

• From Enchanted: Erotic Bedtime Stories for Women (Erotic Fiction) (2006)

  The Beast opened the door to my bedchamber but did not step over the threshold. Through the dim light of the hallway, I could clearly see his physical outline, which would have been terrifying if not for his gentlemanly demeanor. I waited for him to speak. “I only wished to inquire if all was satisfactory, My Lady,” he said, remaining just outside the doorway. “Satisfactory?” I echoed, suddenly amused. “Good heavens, no! I would never in my wildest imaginings have dared to describe these accommodations as ‘satisfactory.’” I smiled happily at my little joke, as I flung the extravagant bedclothes aside, and reached toward the nightstand to light the lantern. The Beast remained silent and stared at me as if stunned. Upon seeing his expression, I realized my flippant reply must have insulted him and immediately tried to put matters right. “Oh, Beast! What I meant to say…well, of course every thing is quite satisfactory. Why, it is more than satisfactory! That is what I meant of course.” But something was terribly wrong. It was as if the Beast had not even heard me. Without thinking I leaped from my bed to approach him as I made another effort to explain. But I only managed a few steps before freezing in horror. Had I heard a growl? My mind reeled between shock and disbelief. It was impossible! And yet, his eyes had a most unnatural glow. He stood perfectly still, like an animal that is poised for an attack. “Beast?” I whispered, as much a plea as a question. And then all of a sudden he was gone. I stood there many moments afterward, trying to collect my shattered wits. I glanced down at my trembling hands, and it was then that I noticed my dressing gown. It was completely sheer, from head to foot! The lantern I had lit only served to emphasize my nakedness beneath the cloth! I did not see the Beast again until suppertime the following day. There, he was as gentle and refined as I had remembered him being at the previous meal we had shared. I blushed and shivered whenever his eyes met mine, but he never gave any indication that he noticed, or that anything had transpired that warranted such an attitude. His demeanor eventually lulled me out of my suspicions and fears, and I was once again at ease, and even enjoying his conversation and friendly manner. Afterward, he stood up and asked me the same question he had asked on the previous night, and the one he would ask every night thereafter. “Beauty, will you marry me?” To which I always replied, “No, Beast.” Our friendship blossomed. And yet, every noise I heard from within my bedchamber at night would leave me anxious and sleepless, waiting breathlessly for that light tap on my chamber door. But the Beast never ventured near my bedchamber again.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  The hour of vespers come and the doctor being about to go to the patient in question, there came to him a messenger from certain very great friends of his at Malfi, charging him fail not for anything to repair thither incontinent, for that there had been a great fray there, in which many had been wounded. Master Mazzeo accordingly put off the tending of the leg until the ensuing morning and going aboard a boat, went off to Malfi, whereupon his wife, knowing that he would not return home that night, let fetch Ruggieri, as of her wont, and bringing him into her chamber, locked him therewithin, against certain other persons of the house should be gone to sleep. Ruggieri, then, abiding in the chamber, awaiting his mistress, and being,--whether for fatigue endured that day or salt meat that he had eaten or maybe for usance,--sore, athirst, caught sight of the flagon of water, which the doctor had prepared for the sick man and which stood in the window, and deeming it drinking water, set it to his mouth and drank it all off; nor was it long ere a great drowsiness took him and he fell asleep. The lady came to the chamber as first she might and finding Ruggieri asleep, nudged him and bade him in a low voice arise, but to no effect, for he replied not neither stirred anywhit; whereat she was somewhat vexed and nudged him more sharply, saying, 'Get up, slugabed! An thou hadst a mind to sleep, thou shouldst have betaken thee to thine own house and not come hither.' Ruggieri, being thus pushed, fell to the ground from a chest whereon he lay and gave no more sign of life than a dead body; whereupon the lady, now somewhat alarmed, began to seek to raise him up and to shake him more roughly, tweaking him by the nose and plucking him by the beard, but all in vain; he had tied his ass to a fast picket.[257] At this she began to fear lest he were dead; nevertheless she proceeded to pinch him sharply and burn his flesh with a lighted taper, but all to no purpose; wherefore, being no doctress, for all her husband was a physician, she doubted not but he was dead in very deed. Loving him over all else as she did, it needeth no asking if she were woebegone for this and daring not make any outcry, she silently fell a-weeping over him and bewailing so sore a mishap. [Footnote 257: A proverbial way of saying that he was fast asleep.]

• From Under the Banner of Heaven (2003)

  of critical peril that loomed. As distinguished historian D. Michael Quinn noted in his book The Mormon Hierarchy: Origins of Power, “Institutionally, Mormonism faced a dilemma of paramount consequence at Smith’s death in June 1844: Can the church survive without the founding prophet? Like the removal of a keystone from an arch, would the entire structure collapse?” Joseph had neglected to provide his followers with a clear mechanism for determining his successor. Indeed, over the years he had hinted at various conflicting criteria for the transfer of power. The result, owing to his untimely demise, was a leadership vacuum that several would-be prophets scrambled to fill. Among the leading claimants were: • Joseph’s eldest son, Joseph Smith III, who was only eleven years old when his father was killed and whom the prophet probably intended to be his successor when the boy became an adult. • Joseph’s younger brother Samuel H. Smith. • Sidney Rigdon, the influential theologian whom Joseph had picked as his vice-presidential running mate in his 1844 campaign for the United States presidency—despite the fact that Rigdon, who suffered from “nervous spasms and swoonings,” was emotionally erratic and unreliable. • Brigham Young, the stalwart, ambitious president of the church’s Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. The contenders fell into two camps: those bitterly opposed to polygamy, who saw Joseph’s death as an opportunity to eradicate the practice before it gained traction, and those who had already taken plural wives and regarded polygamy as a divinely ordained principle that must be sustained. Joseph had first come forward with his covert revelation sanctioning celestial marriage scarcely a year before his martyrdom—and even after he’d documented the revelation in writing, only a select group of his most trusted cronies had been let in on the secret. During the bleak, chaotic days that followed Joseph’s murder, 95 percent of Mormons still had no clue that their prophet had married more than one wife and had declared plural marriage to be one of the most crucial keys to gaining entry to the Kingdom of Heaven. Emma Smith, Samuel Smith, Sidney Rigdon, William Law, and others who despised polygamy—committed Mormons who were convinced that it would be

• From Post Office (1971)

  “Yeh,” I said to the pre-med student, “what do you want with me?” “I am going to be your own personal physician.” “All right, doctor, the first thing I want you to do is to take that god damned human heart out of here!” “Uh uh.” “What?” “The heart stays here.” “Look, man, I don’t know your name—” “Wilbert.” “Well, Wilbert, I don’t know who you are or how you got here but you take ‘Francis’ with you!” “No, it stays with you.” Then he got his little playbag and the rubber wraparound for the arm and he squeezed the ball and the rubber inflated. “You’ve got the blood pressure of a 19-year-old,” he told me. “Fuck that. Look, isn’t it against the law to leave human hearts laying around?” “I’ll be back to get it. Now breathe in!” “I thought the post office was driving me crazy. Now you come along.” “Quiet! Breathe in!” “I need a good young piece of ass, doctor. That’s what’s wrong with me.” “Your backbone is out of place in 14 areas, Chinaski. That breeds tension, imbecility, and, often, madness.” “Balls!” I said … I don’t remember the gentleman leaving. I awakened on my couch at 1:10 p.m., death in the afternoon, and it was hot, the sun ripping through my torn shades to rest on the jar in the center of the coffeetable. “Francis” had stayed with me all night, stewing in alcoholic brine, swimming in the mucous extension of the dead diastole. Sitting there in the jar. It looked like fried chicken. I mean, before you fried it. Exactly. I picked it up and put it in my closet and covered it with a torn shirt. Then I went to the bathroom and vomited. I finished, stuck my face against the mirror. There were long black hairs sticking out all over my face. Suddenly I had to sit down and shit. It was a good hot one. The doorbell rang. I finished wiping my ass, got into some old clothes and went to the door. “Hello?” There was a young guy out there with long blonde hair hanging down around his face and a black girl who just kept smiling as if she were crazy. “Hank?” “Yeh. Who you two guys?” “She is a woman. Don’t you remember us? From the party? We brought a flower.” “Oh balls, come on in.” They brought in the flower, some kind of red-orange thing on a green stem. It made a lot more sense than many things, except that it had been murdered. I found a bowl, put the flower in, brought out a jug of wine and put it on the coffeetable. “You don’t remember her?” the kid asked. “You said you wanted to fuck her.” She laughed. “Very nice, but not now.” “Chinaski, how are you going to make it without the post office?” “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll fuck you. Or let you fuck me.

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

  My vocabulary on the subject was still in process of formation. I found that I could not bring home of the Samskrit equivalent for non- violent. I therefore asked Maulana Abdul Kalam Azad to give me some other equivalent for it. He suggested the word ba-aman; similarly for non-co-operation he suggested the phrase tark-i- mavalat. Thus, while I was still busy devising suitable Hindi, Gujarati and Urdu phraseology for non-co- operation, I was called upon to frame the non-co-operation resolution for that eventful Congress. In the original draft the word ‘non-violent’ had been left out by me. I had handed over the draft to Maulana Shaukat Ali who was travelling in the same compartment, without noticing the omission. During the night I discovered the error. In the morning I sent Mahadev with the message that the omission should be made good before the draft was sent to the press. But I have an impression that the draft was printed before the insertion could be made. The Subjects Committee was to have met the same evening. I had therefore to make the necessary correction in the printed copies of the draft. I afterwards saw that there would have been great difficulty, had I not been ready with my draft. None the less my plight was pitiable indeed. I was absolutely at sea as to who would support the resolution and who would oppose it. Nor had I any idea as to the attitude that Lalaji would adopt. I only saw an imposing phalanx of veteran warriors assembled for the fray at Calcutta, Dr. Besant, Pandit Malaviyaji, Sjt. Vijayaraghavachari, Pandit Motilalji and the Deshabandhu being some of them. In my resolution non-co-operation was postulated only with a view to obtaining redress of the Punjab and the Khilafat wrongs. That, however, did not appeal to Sjt. Vijayaraghavachari. ‘If non- co- operation was to be declared, why should it be with reference to particular wrongs ? The absence of Swaraj was the biggest wrong that the non-co-operation should be directed,’ he argued. Pandit Motilalji also wanted the demand for Swaraj to be included in the resolution. I readily accepted the suggestion and incorporated the demand for Swaraj in my resolution, which was passed after an exhaustive, serious and somewhat stromy discussion. Motilalji was the first to join the movement. I still remember the sweet discussion that I had with him on the resolution. He suggested some changes in its phraseology which I adopted. He undertook to win the Deshabandhu for the movement. The he felt sceptical as to the capacity of the people to carry out the programme. It was only at the Nagpur Congress that he and Lalaji accepted it whole heartedly. I felt the loss of the late Lokamanya very deeply at the special session. It has been my firm faith to this day that, had the Lokamanya been then alive, he would have given his benedictions to me on that occasion.

• From Confessions of a Mask (1958)

  But the photograph she sent me was so large that it would only barely have fitted into a brief case. As I could not get it in my pocket, I carried it wrapped in a carrying-cloth. Fearing the factory might burn down with the picture in it, I took it with me whenever I went home. One night I was on the train returning to the arsenal when the sirens suddenly sounded and the lights were put out. In a few minutes there came the signal to take shelter. I searched in the luggage-rack with groping hands, but the large bundle that I had put there had been stolen, and with it went the carrying-cloth containing Sonoko's picture. Being inherently given to superstition, from that moment I became obsessed with the idea that I must go to see Sonoko quickly. That air raid of the night of May the twenty-fourth, as destructive as the midnight raid of March the ninth had been, brought me to a final decision. Perhaps my relationship with Sonoko required the miasmal air exhaled by this accumulation of calamities; perhaps that relationship was a sort of chemical compound that could be produced only through the agency of sulphuric acid. We left the train and took shelter in the many caves that had been dug along a line where the foothills opened onto the plain, and from our shelter we watched the sky over Tokyo turn crimson. From time to time something would explode, throwing a reflection against the sky, and suddenly between the clouds we could see an eerie blue sky, as though it were midday. It was a sliver of blue sky appearing for an instant in the dead of night.The futile searchlights seemed more like beacons welcoming the enemy planes. They would catch the glittering wings of an enemy plane exactly in the middle of two beams that had crossed momentarily and would then beckon the plane courteously, handing it on from one baton of light to the next, each time nearer Tokyo. Nor was the antiaircraft fire very heavy in those days. The B-29's reached the skies over Tokyo in comfort. From where we were it was unlikely that anyone could actually distinguish friend from foe in the air battles that were taking place above Tokyo. And yet a chorus of cheers would rise from the crowd of watchers whenever they spotted, against the crimson backdrop, the shadow of a plane that had been hit and was falling. The young workmen were particularly vociferous. The sound of hand-clapping and cheering rang out from the mouths of the scattered tunnels as though in a theater. So far as the spectacle seen from this distance was concerned, it seemed to make no essential difference whether the falling plane was ours or the enemy's.

• From Post Office (1971)

  “Won’t you come in?” Fay had asked. “Maybe next week …” Fay put another chocolate into her mouth. “Robby’s worried. He lost his job on the delivery truck. He says he can’t write without a job. He needs a feeling of security. He says he won’t be able to write until he finds another job.” “Oh hell,” I said, “I can get him another job.” “Where? How?” “They are hiring down at the post office, right and left. The pay’s not bad.” “THE POST OFFICE! ROBBY’S TOO SENSITIVE TO WORK AT THE POST OFFICE!” “Sorry,” I said, “thought it was worth a try. Good night.” Fay didn’t answer me. She was angry. 8I had Fridays and Saturdays off, which made Sunday the roughest day. Plus the fact that on Sunday they made me report at 3:30 p.m. instead of my usual 6:18 p.m. This Sunday I went in and they put me in the station papers section, as usual per Sundays, and this meant at least eight hours on my feet. Besides the pains, I was beginning to suffer from dizzy spells. Everything would whirl, I would come very close to blacking out, then I would grab myself. It had been a brutal Sunday. Some friends of Fay’s had come over and sat on the couch and chirped, how they were really great writers, really the best in the nation. The only reason they didn’t get published was that they didn’t—they said—send their stuff out. I had looked at them. If they wrote the way they looked, drinking their coffee and giggling and dipping their doughnuts, it didn’t matter if they sent it out or jammed it. I was sticking in the magazines this Sunday. I needed coffee, two coffees, a bite to eat. But all the soups were standing out front. I hit out the back way. I had to get straight. The cafeteria was on the second floor. I was on the fourth. There was a doorway down by the men’s crapper. I looked at the sign. WARNING! DO NOT USE THIS STAIRWAY! It was a con. I was wiser than those mothers. They just put the sign up to keep clever guys like Chinaski from going down to the cafeteria. I opened the door and went on down. The door closed behind me. I walked down to the second floor. Turned the knob. What the fuck! The door wouldn’t open! It was locked. I walked back up. Past the third floor door. I didn’t try it. I knew it was locked. As the first floor door was locked. I knew the post office well enough by then. When they laid a trap, they were thorough. I had one slim chance. I was at the fourth floor. I tried the knob. It was locked. At least the door was near the men’s crapper. There was always somebody going in and out of the men’s crapper. I waited. Ten minutes. Fifteen minutes. Twenty minutes!

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

  I further believed at that time that Mr. Montagu would not betray or allow India’s cause to be betrayed. The release of the Ali Brothers and other prisoners too seemed to me to be an auspicious sign. In these circumstances I felt that a resolution not rejecting but accepting the reforms was the correct thing. Deshabandhu Chittaranjan Das, on the other hand, held firmly to the view that the reforms ought to be rejected as wholly inadequate and unsatisfactory. The late Lokamanya was more or less neutral, but had decided to throw in his weight on the side of any resolution that the Deshabandhu might approve. The idea of having to differ from such seasoned, well tried and universally revered leaders was unbearable to me. But on the other hand the voice of conscience was clear. I tried to run away from the Congress and suggested to Pandit Malaviyaji and Motilalji that it would be in the general interest if I absented myself from the Congress for the rest of the session. It would save me from having to make an exhibition of my difference with such esteemed leaders. But my suggestion found no favour with these two seniors. The news of my proposal was somehow whispered to Lala Harkishanlal. ‘This will never do. It will very much hurt the feelings of the Punjabis,’ he said. I discussed the matter with Lokamanya, Deshabandhu and Mr. Jinnah, but no way out could be found. Finally I laid bare my distress to Malaviyaji. ‘I see no prospect of a compromise,’ I told him, ‘and if I am to move my resolution, a division will have to be called and votes taken. But I do not find here any arrangements for it. The practice in the open session of the Congress so far has been to take votes by a show of hands with the result that all distinction between visitors and delegates is lost, while, as for taking a count of votes in such vast assemblies, we have no means at all. So it comes to this that, even if I want to call a division, there will be no facility for it, nor meaning in it.’ But Lala Harkishanlal came to the rescue and undertook to make the necessary arrangements. ‘We will not,’ he said, ‘permit visitors in the Congress pandal on the day on which voting is to take place. And as for taking the count, well, I shall see to that. But you must not absent yourself from the Congress.’ I capitulated; I framed my resolution, and in heart trembling undertook to move it. Pandit Malaviyaji and Mr. Jinnah were to support it. I could notice that, although our difference of opinion was free from any trace of bitterness, and although our speeches too contained nothing but cold reasoning, the people could not stand the very fact of a difference; it pained them. They wanted unanimity.

• From Post Office (1971)

  8 I had Fridays and Saturdays off, which made Sunday the roughest day. Plus the fact that on Sunday they made me report at 3:30 p.m. instead of my usual 6:18 p.m. This Sunday I went in and they put me in the station papers section, as usual per Sundays, and this meant at least eight hours on my feet. Besides the pains, I was beginning to suffer from dizzy spells. Everything would whirl, I would come very close to blacking out, then I would grab myself. It had been a brutal Sunday. Some friends of Fay’s had come over and sat on the couch and chirped, how they were really great writers, really the best in the nation. The only reason they didn’t get published was that they didn’t—they said —send their stuff out. I had looked at them. If they wrote the way they looked, drinking their coffee and giggling and dipping their doughnuts, it didn’t matter if they sent it out or jammed it. I was sticking in the magazines this Sunday. I needed coffee, two coffees, a bite to eat. But all the soups were standing out front. I hit out the back way. I had to get straight. The cafeteria was on the second floor. I was on the fourth. There was a doorway down by the men’s crapper. I looked at the sign. WARNING! DO NOT USE THIS STAIRWAY! It was a con. I was wiser than those mothers. They just put the sign up to keep clever guys like Chinaski from going down to the cafeteria. I opened the door and went on down. The door closed behind me. I walked down to the second

• From The Ice Storm (1994)

  Water was trickling down the walls in the living room. The house had turned into some Revolutionary War fountain, the Reverend Mark Staples’s fountain. Water was trickling, no, streaming down the walls in Hood’s house. The enormity of it took a moment to sink in—as the water itself was sinking into the antique planks and walls of his home. From the ceiling the water came in sheets, and beneath it a large, brownish stain, more than eighteen inches wide, with the curvilinear shape, say, of a Smiley Face, perhaps, or the flame of some Yuletide candle. Rorschach stain. For a second Hood was reminded, in the midst of the crises around him, of the burning of the Yule log, that video loop that played on WPIX for five or six hours on Christmas Day. The water stain was inching outward along the linen-colored paint job. And on the floor of the living room, there was a large puddle of standing water. While the cascades from the ceiling ran down, the puddle trickled through the floorboards into the basement. Maybe Hood was not thinking clearly, but he followed the water where it led. He left Mike to look after the flood. On the other side of this wall, too, in the front hall closet, more falls fell. The stream ran down onto the floor and in a winding, indirect creek down toward the kitchen. Away from Mike. In the closet, Elena’s furs, some leather items, and a bunch of tennis and paddle-tennis rackets —everything had been touched by the curse of this flood. Hood ran past Mike and up the front stairs to the second floor. He was guessing that the leak originated in the master bathroom, and, although the wall there had indeed partly caved in, although this water closet was directly above the worst manifestations of the flood, he could find no direct evidence of a burst pipe. He could see in past the Sheetrock, though, into that strange netherworld of wiring and struts and joists that resembled nothing so much as the inside of a human body. He felt he could reach into the thundering heart of his home, and thus into the heart of his family. He felt almost certain that the heart he would find there would be stilled. The frozen part of the plumbing must have emanated from that point. The water flowed out into the hall, down toward Wendy’s bedroom and then disappeared, miraculously. It meant to travel, this water. It was flow. Its motion was no respecter of dignity. It simply moved. And there wasn’t much Hood could do about it. He tried to call the plumber, got right on the phone in his blue-gray bedroom, a deep red rotary phone with a pleasant shape and heft. Then he remembered that the line was dead. He tried the tap and the shower. A sigh, like a last breath, issued forth from each of them.

• From Confessions of a Mask (1958)

  Who could have explained for me why I was so delighted with fancies in which those body-revealing tights worn by the princes were associated with their cruel deaths? There is a Hungarian fairy tale that I particularly remember in this connection. For a long time my heart was captivated by an extremely realistic illustration to this story. Printed in primary colors, the illustration showed the prince dressed in black tights and a rose-colored tunic with spun-gold embroidery on the breast. A dark-blue cape that flashed a scarlet lining was flung about his shoulders, and around his waist there was a green and clear-cut agony, not fuzzy remorse; it was like being forced to look down from a window at a reflection of fierce summer sunlight that is dividing the street into a glaring contrast of sun and shadow. One cloudy afternoon during the rainy season I happened to be walking through Azabu on an errand. This was a section of the city I had seldom been in. Suddenly, from behind me, someone called my name. It was Sonoko. Upon looking around and catching sight of her I was not as surprised as I had been that time on the streetcar when I had mistaken another girl for her. To me this chance encounter seemed perfectly natural, as though I had foreseen it all along. I felt as though I had known everything about this instant since long before. She was wearing a simple dress, with a flower pattern like that of chic wallpaper, and no ornament other than some lace at the V of the neck; there was nothing about her to proclaim that she was now a married woman. She was probably returning from drawing rations as she was carrying a bucket and was also followed by an old servant woman carrying another bucket. She sent the woman on home and walked along talking with me. "You've become a little thin, haven't you?" "Ah, thanks to studying for the exams." "So? Please take care of your health." Then we fell silent for a time. Soft sunlight began gold belt. He was equipped with a helmet of green gold, a bright-red sword, and a quiver of green leather. His left hand, gloved in white leather, grasped a bow; his right hand rested upon the branch of one of the ancient trees of the forest; and with a grave, commanding countenance he was looking down the terrifying throat of the raging dragon that was about to set upon him. On his face was the resolve of death.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Accordingly, she went spying about the walls of the house, now in one part and now in another, whenas her husband was abroad, and happened at last upon a very privy place where the wall was somewhat opened by a fissure and looking therethrough, albeit she could ill discover what was on the other side, algates she perceived that the opening gave upon a bedchamber there and said in herself, 'Should this be the chamber of Filippo,' to wit, the youth her neighbour, 'I were half sped.' Then, causing secretly enquire of this by a maid of hers, who had pity upon her, she found that the young man did indeed sleep in that chamber all alone; wherefore, by dint of often visiting the crevice and dropping pebbles and such small matters, whenas she perceived him to be there, she wrought on such wise that he came to the opening, to see what was to do; whereupon she called to him softly. He, knowing her voice, answered her, and she, profiting by the occasion, discovered to him in brief all her mind; whereat the youth was mightily content and made shift to enlarge the hole from his side on such wise that none could perceive it; and therethrough they many a time bespoke one another and touched hands, but could go no farther, for the jealous vigilance of the husband. After awhile, the Feast of the Nativity drawing near, the lady told her husband that, an it pleased him, she would fain go to church on Christmas morning and confess and take the sacrament, as other Christians did. Quoth he, 'And what sin hast thou committed that thou wouldst confess?' 'How?' answered the lady. 'Thinkest thou that I am a saint, because thou keepest me mewed up? Thou must know well enough that I commit sins like all others that live in this world; but I will not tell them to thee, for that thou art not a priest.' The jealous wretch took suspicion at these words and determined to seek to know what sins she had committed; wherefore, having bethought himself of a means whereby he might gain his end, he answered that he was content, but that he would have her go to no other church than their parish chapel and that thither she must go betimes in the morning and confess herself either to their chaplain or to such priest as the latter should appoint her and to none other and presently return home. Herseemed she half apprehended his meaning; but without saying otherwhat, she answered that she would do as he said.

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

  The acquainted my co-workers with all this, and told them that there was a likelihood of Government stopping me from proceeding further, and that I might have to go to jail earlier than I had expected, and that, if I was to be arrested, it would be best that the arrest should take place in Motihari or if possible in Bettiah. It was advisable, therefore, that I should go to those place as early as possible. Champaran is a district of the Tirhut division and Motihari is its headquarters. Rajkumar Shukla’s place was in the vicinity of Bettiah, and the tenants belonging to the #kothis# in its neighbourhood were the poorest in the district. Rajkumar Shukla wanted me to see them and I was equally anxious to do so. So I started with my co-workers for Motihari the same day. Babu Gorakh Prasad harboured us in his home, which became a caravanserai. It could hardly contain us all. The very same day we heard that about five miles from Motihari a tenant had been ill-treated. It was decided that, in company with Babu Dharanidhar Prasad, I should go and see him the next morning, and we accordingly set off for the place on elephant’s back. An elephant, by the way, is about as common in Champaran as a bullock-cart in Gujarat. We had scarcely gone half when a messenger from the Police Superintendent overtook us and said that the latter had sent his compliments. I saw what he meant. Having left Dharanidharbabu to proceed to the original destination, I got into the hired carriage which the messenger had brought. He then served on me a notice to leave Champaran, and drove me to my place. On his asking me to acknowledge the service of the notice, I wrote to the effect that I did not propose to comply with it and leave Champaran till my inquiry was finished. Thereupon I received a summons to take my trial the next day for disobeying the order to leave Champaran. I kept awake that whole night writing letters and giving necessary instructions to Babu Brajkishore Prasad. The news of the notice and the summons spread like wildfire, and I was told that Motihari that day witnessed unprecedented scenes. Gorakhbabu’s house and the court house overflowed with men. Fortunately I had finished all my work during the night and so was able to cope with the crows. My companions proved the greatest help. They occupied themselves with regulating the crowds, for the latter followed me wherever I went. A sort of friendliness sprang up between the officials Collector, Magistrate, Police Superintendent and myself. I might have legally resisted the notices served on me. Instead I accepted them all, and my conduct towards the officials was correct. They thus saw that I did not want to offend them personally, but that I wanted to offer civil resistance to their orders.

• From Under the Banner of Heaven (2003)

  Having adopted their defiant worldview, Ron became a regular attendee at his brothers’ meetings. He threw away his driver’s license and removed the license plates from his vehicle. And then he quit his job—which greatly heightened Dianna’s concern, because the family was already balanced tenuously on the edge of financial ruin. Ron was in the latter stages of what was, for him, a large construction project: a four-unit apartment complex he had financed with a bank loan and was building himself, after hours, as a business investment. Up until this time, after working all day at his “real” job, he’d been devoting most evenings to building the fourplex and spending the remainder of his nights constructing a “dream house” in Highland for his own family. His two after- hours construction projects were straining their cash flow to the limit and beyond. Compounding their woes, the economy throughout the Rocky Mountain region had just plunged into an abysmal recession. Ron and Dianna failed to make their loan payments. There wasn’t enough money for groceries or clothes for the kids. Ron began to succumb to the stress. “It was a really bad recession,” Weiss remembers. “Ron was going to lose everything. In fact, the papers were already made up for the bank to take away their home, which he had worked so hard on for so many years.” It was during this crisis that Dianna, on behalf of her sisters-in-law, asked Ron to visit with his brothers and straighten them out. “Ron was really vulnerable right then,” Weiss explains. “Dianna told me at the time that Ron was so upset he would regularly just break down and cry. She’d tell him, ‘Ron, don’t worry about it; we can start over. We did it once, we’ll do it again.’ But he’d just look at her and say, ‘We’ve sacrificed too much. I can’t bear losing it all.’ “And just then Dan came along,” Weiss declares with anguish in her voice. Dan’s religious ideas included a message that Ron found particularly comforting during that difficult period. “Dan convinced Ron that God didn’t want us to have material things, that it was good to lose everything. Dan told him that he had a higher calling. That God intended for Ron to be a missionary for the things Dan was teaching. And Ron really believed it—all of it. In fact, he even quit his job. Dan said it was all going to be okay, because he—Ron—was going to be called as the next president and prophet of the LDS Church, that Dan would be made his first counselor, and that the four other Lafferty boys would be made second counselors.”

• From Under the Banner of Heaven (2003)

  Carnes loaded their belongings into the Impala. Among the items they placed in the car were a .30-30 Winchester and a .270 deer rifle. As they were lashing some items onto the vehicle’s roof, a troubled Carnes told Ron, “I don’t see any reason for anybody to kill any baby.” Ron replied that Erica was a “child of perdition” and therefore needed to be removed. In any case, Ron added, not only had God specifically named the baby in His commandment, but after Brenda was killed, the baby wouldn’t have a mother, so it would in fact be a blessing if Erica were removed along with her mom. When the station wagon was loaded, the four men climbed in, with Dan at the wheel, and drove over to Mark Lafferty’s farm to pick up another weapon, a 20- gauge shotgun, which Dan had loaned to Mark a few years earlier. Mark handed the gun to Ron, and as he did so he asked, skeptically, “What are you going to do with that?” “I’m going hunting,” Ron said. Knowing that no game was in season, Mark countered, “What are you going to hunt?” “Any fucking thing,” Ron answered, “that gets in my way.” Ron, Dan, Knapp, and Carnes then drove off in the Impala to shoot the guns at a nearby gravel quarry; Ron wanted to “sight them in,” which involved shooting at cans and then adjusting each weapon’s sights to ensure its accuracy at a given distance. When they got to the quarry and started firing, however, they discovered that they’d brought the wrong ammunition for the deer rifle: it had a .270-caliber bore, but the only shells they had were .243 caliber, too small to be fired in that particular weapon. They decided to go back to Mark’s house and see if he knew where Ron’s .243-caliber rifle was. When they got to Mark’s, Carnes recalls, “Ron hollered out the window and asked if he had the .243. Mark replied and said, ‘No, I think it’s at Allen’s house.’ ”

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

  Even when he was ill, he would seek my aid, and though there was much difference between our ways of living, he did not hesitate to accept my quack treatment. This friend once got into a very bad scrape. Though he kept me informed of most of his affairs, he had studiously kept back one thing. He was a large importer of goods from Bombay and Calcutta, and not infrequently he resorted to smuggling. But as he was on the best terms with customs officials, no one was inclined to suspect him. In charging duty, they used to take his invoices on trust. Some might even have connived at the smuggling. But to use the telling simile of the Gujarati poet Akho, theft like quicksilver won’t be suppressed, and Parsi Rustomji’s proved no exception. The good friend ran post haste to me, the tears rolling down his cheeks as he said: ‘Bhai, I have deceived you. My guilt has been discovered today. I have smuggled and I am doomed. I must go to jail and be ruined. You alone may be able to save me from this predicament. I have kept back nothing else from you, but I thought I ought not to bother you with such tricks of the trade, and so I never told you about this smuggling. But now, how much I repent it!’ I calmed him and said: ‘To save or not to save you is in His hands. As to me you know my way. I can but try to save you by means of confession.’ The good Parsi felt deeply mortified. ‘But is not my confession before you enough?’ he asked. ‘You have wronged not me but Government. How will the confession made before me avail you?’ I replied gently. ‘Of course I will do just as you advise, but will you not consult with my old counsel Mr.—? He is a friend too,’ said Parsi Rustomji. Inquiry revealed that the smuggling had been going on for a long time, but the actual offence detected involved a trifling sum. We went to his counsel. He perused the papers, and said: ‘The case will be tried by a jury, and a Natal jury will be the last to acquit an Indian. But I will not give up hope.’ I did not know this counsel intimately. Parsi Rustomji intercepted: ‘I thank you, but I should like to be guided by Mr. Gandhi’s advice in this case. He knows me intimately. Of course you will advise him whenever necessary.’ Having thus shelved the counsel’s question, we went to Parsi Rustomji’s shop. And now explaining my view I said to him: ‘I don’t think this case should be taken to court at all. It rests with the Customs Officer to prosecute you or to let you go, and he in turn will have to be guided by the Attorney General. I am prepared to meet both.