Anxiety

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

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

  TREATMENT OF PLEURISY The persistence of the pleurisy caused some anxiety, but I knew that the cure lay not in taking medicine internally but in dietetic changes assisted by external remedies. I called in Dr. Allinson of vegetarian fame, who treated diseases by dietetic modifications and whom I had met in 1890. He thoroughly overhauled me. I explained to him how I had pledged myself not to take milk. He cheered me up and said: ‘You need not take milk. In fact I want you to do without any fat for some days.’ He then advised me to live on plain brown bread, raw vegetables such as beet, radish, onion and other tubers and greens, and also fresh fruit, mainly oranges. The vegetables were not to be cooked but merely grated fine, if I could not masticate them. I adopted this for about three days, but raw vegetables did not quite suit me. My body was not in a condition to enable me to do full justice to the experiment. I was nervous about taking raw vegetables. Dr. Allinson also advised me to keep all the windows of my room open for the whole twenty-four hours, bathe in tepid water, have an oil massage on the affected parts and a walk in the open for fifteen to thirty minutes. I liked all these suggestions. My room had French windows which, if kept wide open, would let in the rain. The fanlight could not be opened. I therefore got the glass broken, so as to let in fresh air, and I partially opened the windows in a manner not to let in rain. All these measures somewhat improved my health, but did not completely cure me.

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

  I saw that brahmacharya, which is so full of wounderful potency, is by no means an easy affair, and certainly not a mere matter of the body. It begins with bodily restraint, but does not end there. The perfection of it precludes even an impure thought. A true brahmachari will not even dream of satisfying the fleshly appetite, and until he is in that condition, he has a great deal of ground to cover. For me the observance of even bodily brahmacharya has been full of difficulties. Today I may say that I feel myself fairly safe, but I had yet to achieve complete mastery over thought, which is so essential. Not that the will or effort is lacking, but it is yet a problem to me wherefrom undersirable thoughts spring their insidious invasions. I have no doubt that there is a key to lock out undersirable thoughts, but every one has to find it out for himself. Saints and seers have left their experiences for us, but they have given us no infallible and universal prescription. For perfection or freedom from error comes only from grace, and so seekers after God have left us mantras, such as Ramanama, hallowed by their own austerities and charged with their purity. Without an unreserved surrender to His grace, complete mastery over thought is impossible. This is the teaching of every great book of religion, and I am realizing the truth of it every moment of my striving after that perfect brahmacharya . But part of the history of that striving and struggle will be told in chapters to follow. I shall conclude this chapter with an indication of how I set about the task. In the first flush of inthusiasm, I found the observance quite easy. The very first change I made in my mode of life was to stop sparing the same bed with my wife or seeking privacy with her. Thus brahmacharya which I had been observing willynilly since 1900, was sealed with a vow in the middle of 1906. 105.

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

  THE FIRST CASE While in Bombay, I began, on the one hand, my study of Indian law and, on the other, my experiments in dietetics in which Virchand Gandhi, a friend, joined me. My brother, for his part, was trying his best to get me briefs. The study of Indian law was a tedious business. The Civil Procedure Code I could in no way get on with. Not so however, with the Evidence Act. Virchand Gandhi was reading for the Solicitor’s Examination and would tell me all sorts of stories about barristers and vakils. ‘Sir Pherozeshah’s ability,’ he would say, ‘lies in his profound knowledge of law. He has the Evidence Act by heart and knows all the cases on the thirty- second section. Badruddin Tyabji’s wonderful power of argument inspires the judges with awe.’ The stories of stalwarts such as these would unnerve me. ‘It is not unusual,’ he would add, ‘for a barrister to vegetate for five or seven years. That’s why I have signed the articles for solicitorship. You should count yourself luckly if you can paddle your own canoe in three years’ time.’ Expenses were mounting up every month. To have a barister’s board outside the house, whilst still preparing for the barrister’s profession inside, was a thing to which I could not reconcile myself. Hence I could not give undivided attention to my studies. I developed some liking for the Evidence Act and read Mayne’s Hindu Law with deep interest, but I had not the courage to conduct a case. I was helpless beyond words, even as the bride come fresh to her father-in- law’s house! About this time, I took up the case of one Mamibai. It was a ‘small cause.’ ‘You

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

  must voluntarily submit themselves to all the regulations that the poor are subject to, and the officials ought to be impartial. My experience is that the officials, instead of looking upon third class passengers as fellowmen, regard them as so many sheep. They talk to them contemptuously, and brook no reply or argument. The third class passenger has to obey the official as though he were his servant, and the letter may with impunity belabour and blackmail him, and book him his ticket only putting him to the greatest possible inconvenience, including often missing the train. All this I have seen with my own eyes. No reform is possible unless some of the educated and the rich voluntarily accept the status of the poor, travel third, refuse to enjoy the amenities denied to the poor and, instead of taking avoidable hardships, discourtesies and injustice as a matter of course, fight for their removal. Wherever I went in Kathiawad I heard complaints about the Viramgam customs hardships. I therefore decided immediately to make use of Lord Willingdon’s offer. I collected and read all the literature available on the subject, convinced myself that the complaints were well founded, and opened correspondence with the Bombay Government. I called on the Private Secretary to Lord Willingdon and waited on His Excellency also. The latter expressed his sympathy but shifted the blame on Delhi. ‘If it had been in our hands, we should have removed the cordon long ago. You should approach the Government of India,’ said the secretary. I communicated with the Government of India, but got no reply beyond an acknowledgment. It was only when I had an occasion to meet Lord Chelmsford later that redress could be had. When I placed the facts before him, he expressed his astonishment. He had known nothing of the matter. He gave me a patient hearing, telephoned that very moment for papers about Viramgam, and promised to remove the cordon if the authorities had no explanation or defence to offer.

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

  could get in did so by sheer force, often sneaking through windows if the doors were locked. I had to reach Calcutta on the date fixed for the meeting, and if I missed this train I could not arrive in time. I had almost given up hope of getting in. No one was willing to accept me, when porter discovering my plight came to me and said, ‘Give me twelve annas and I’ll get you a seat.’ ‘Yes,’ said I, ‘you shall have twelve annas if you do procure me a seat.’ The young man went from carriage to carriage entreating passengers but no one heeded him. As the train was about to start, some passengers said, ‘There is no room here, but you can shove him in if you like. He will have to stand.’ ‘Well?’ asked the young porter. I readily agreede, and he shoved me in bodily through the window. Thus I got in and the porter earned his twelve annas. The night was a trial. The other passengers were sitting somehow. I stood two hours, holding the chain of the upper bunk. Meanwhile some of the passengers kept worrying me incessantly. ‘Why will you not sit down?’ they asked. I tried to reason with them saying there was no room, but they could not tolerate my standing, though they were lying full length on the upper bunks. They did not tire of worrying me neither did I tire of gently replying to them. This at last mollified them. Some of them asked me my name, and made room for me. Patience was thus rewarded. I was dead tired, and my head was reeling. God sent help just when it was most needed. In that way I somehow reached Delhi and thence Calcutta. The Maharaja of Cassimbazar, the president of the Calcutta meeting, was my host. Just as in Karachi, here also there was unbounded enthusiasm. The meeting was attended by several Englishmen. Before the 31st July the Government announced that indentured emigration from India was stopped. It was in 1894 that I drafted the first petition protesting against the system, and I had then hoped that this ‘semi-slavery,’ as Sir W. W. Hunter used to call the system, would some day be brought to an end. There were many who aided in the agitation which was started in 1894, but I cannot help saying that potential Satyagraha hastened the end. For further details of that agitation and of those who took part in it, I refer the reader to my Satyagraha in South Africa. 138.

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

  operation for fissures. As I recuperated, my desire to live revived, especially because God had kept work in store for me. I had hardly begun to feel my way towards recovery, when I happened casually to read in the papers the Rowlatt Committee’s report which had just been published. Its recommendations startled me. Shankarlal Banker and Umar Sobani approached me with the suggestion that I should take some prompt action in the matter. In about a month I went to Ahmedabad. I mentioned my apprehensions to Vallabhbhai, who used to come to see me almost daily. ‘Something must be done,’ said I to him. ‘But what can we do in the circumstances?’ he asked in reply. I answered, ‘If even a handful of men can be found to sign the pledge of resistance, and the proposed measure is passed into law in defiance of it, we ought to offer Satyagraha at once. If I was not laid up like this, I should give battle against it all alone, and expect others to follow suit. But in my present helpless condition I feel myself to be altogether unequal to the task.’ As a result of this talk, it was decided to call a small meeting of such persons as were in touch with me. The recommendations of the Rowlatt Committee seemed to me to be altogether unwarranted by the evidence published in its report, and were, I felt, such that no self- respecting people could submit to them. The proposed conference was at last held at the Ashram. Hardly a score of persons had been invited to it. So far as I remember, among those who attended were, besides Vallabhbhai, Shrimati Sarojini Naidu, Mr. Horniman, the late Mr. Umar Sobani, Sjt. Shankarlal Banker and Shrimati Anasuyabehn. The Satyagraha pledge was drafted at this meeting, and, as far as I recollect, was signed by all present. I was not editing any journal at that time, but I used occasionally to ventilate my views through the daily press. I followed the practice on this occasion. Shankarlal Banker took up the agitation in right

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

  FAITH ON ITS TRIAL Though I had hired chambers in the fort and a house in Girgaum, God would not let me settle down. Scarcely had I moved into my new house when my second son Manilal, who had already been through an acute attack of smallpox some years back, had a severe attack of typhoid, combined with pneumonia and signs of delirium at night. The doctor was called in. He said medicine would have little effect, but eggs and chicken broth might be given with profit. Manilal was only ten years old. To consult his wishes was out of the question. Being his guardian I had to decide. The doctor was a very good Parsi. I told him that we were all vegetarians and that I could not possibly give either of the two things to my son. Would he therefore recommend something else? ‘Your son’s life is in danger,’ said the good doctor. ‘We could give him milk diluted with water, but that will not give him enough nourishment. As you know, I am called in by many Hindu families, and they do not object to anything I prescribe. I think you will be well advised not to be so hard on your son.’ ‘What you say is quite right,’ said I. ‘As a doctor you could not do otherwise. But my responsibility is very great. If the boy had been grown up, I should certainly have tried to ascertain his wishes and respected them. But here I have to think and decide for him. To my mind it is only on such occasions, that a man’s faith is truly tested Rightly or wrongly it is part of my religious conviction that man may not eat meat, eggs, and the like. There should be a limit even means of keeping ourselves alive. Even for itself we may not so certain things. Religion, as I understand it, does not permit me to use meat or eggs for me or

• From Lady Chatterley's Lover (1928)

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

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

  It is your mother’s permission which really matters. If she permits you, then godspeed! Tell her I will not interfere. You will go with my blessings.’ ‘I could expect nothing more from you,’ said I. ‘I shall now try to win mother over. But would you not recommend me to Mr. Lely?’ ‘How can I do that?’ said he. ‘But he is a good man. You ask for an appointment telling him how you are connected. He will certainly give you one and may even help you.’ I cannot say why my uncle did not give me a note of recommendation. I have a faint idea that he hesitated to co-operate directly in my going to England, which was in his opinion an irreligious act. I wrote to Mr Lely, who asked me to see him at his residence. He saw me as he was ascending the staircase;and saying curtly, ‘Pass your B.A. fist and then see me. No help can be given you now’, he hurried upstairs. I had made elaborate preparations to meet him. I had carefully learnt up a few sentences and had bowed low and saluted him with both hands. But all to no purpose! I thought of my wife’s ornaments. I thought of my elder brother, in whom I had the utmost faith. He was generous to a fault, and he loved me as his son. I returned to Rajkot from Porbandar and reported all that had happened. I consulted Joshiji, who of course advised even incurring a debt if necessary. I suggested the disposal of my wife’s ornaments, which could fetch about two or three thousand rupees. My brother promised to find the money somehow. My mother, however, was still unwilling. She had begun making minute inquiries. Someone had told her that young men got lost in England. Someone else had said that they took to meat; and yet another that they could not live there

• From Macho Sluts (1988)

  The newcomer did not know why he was telling this plain, unsmiling leatherman about his bizarre, secret fantasies, asking him questions and accepting his suggestions. He did not know he was nervous and needed to be patted on the head and pointed in the right direction. It was easy to confess his lack of experience and his longstanding fascination with leather. Like most other raw recruits, he thought leather was synonymous with S/M, and S/M meant being whipped. He did not know how rare this ritual actually is. The grave stranger was knowledgeable and reassuring. He drew verbal thumbnail sketches of the half-dozen tops who were hunting in the bar that night, and told him which one he needed to meet—an older man, graying at the temples, with the build of a boxer and sad eyes. His name was Roger, and he had a protective instinct toward novices; it was almost a reflex for him to take a courteous one home. Before he could say “whips and chains,” Curt was leaning his head on the master’s chest and whispering, “Sir, may I buy you a beer, sir?” The gesture was too touching, the offer too well-bred to be rejected. When the boy returned with the cold, sweaty bottle, he was ordered to tell his story. It came out easily, since he had rehearsed it in the corner with the sympathetic stranger. He was not surprised when the big man put a hand around his throat and guided him down to the floor until he knelt with his cheek pressed against the warm denim that covered the master’s cock. Curt wrapped his arms around the thighs encased in latigo, smelling of motor oil, and felt that he had come home. But he was surprised when the stranger (he had already forgotten exactly what he looked like) loomed near and inquired if he, “the boy,” had given offense to the master. Roger scowled and said he had not known the boy was in anyone else’s service. Before the pawn could deny this, the stranger said, “Sir, he is not in my service. But I pointed you out to him and suggested he introduce himself. I would hold myself responsible if you were not pleased.” Placated, the master relaxed, and the upshot of the matter was that all three of them left the bar together, to game in one of the city’s better-equipped arenas. This master’s forte was whipping. In his black room, he had a large collection of English hunting crops, nautical cats, Scottish tawses, monks’ flails, and Australian quirts on display under glass. The spoiler gave each one a separate scrutiny and made a quiet comment or two that showed his appreciation of their history and construction. These implements were not for use. But the walls of the master’s inner sanctum were hung with enough modern copies to flog the entire mutinous crew of an aircraft carrier.

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

  acquainting him with all the facts. Thanks to this letter and to Dr. Mehta’s efforts in the matter, the return journey though on deck was less unbearable. In Rangoon my fruitarian diet was again a source of additional trouble to the host. But since Dr. Mehta’s home was as good as my own, I could control somewhat the lavishness of the menu. However, as I had not set any limit to the number of articles I might eat, the palate and the eyes refused to put an effective check on the supply of varieties ordered. There were no regular hours for meals. Personally I preferred having the last meal before night fall. Nevertheless as a rule it could not be had before eight or nine. This year 1915 was the year of the Kumbha fair, which is held at Hardvar once every 12 years. I was by no means eager to attend the fair, but I was anxious to meet Mahatma Munshiramji who was in his Gurukul. Gokhale’s Society had sent a big volunteer corps for service at the Kumbha. Pandit Hridayanath Kunzru was at the head, and the late Dr. Dev was the medical officer. I was invited to send the Phoenix party to assist them, and so Maganlal Gandhi had already preceded me. On my return from Rangoon, I joined the band. The journey from Calcutta to Hardvar was particularly trying. Sometimes the compartments had no lights. From Saharanpur we were huddled into carriages for goods or cattle. These had no roofs, and what with the blazing midday sun overhead and the scorching iron floor beneath, we were all but roasted. The pangs of thirst, caused by even such a journey as this, could not persuade orthodox Hindus to take water, if it was ‘Musalmani.’ They waited until they could get the ‘Hindu’ water. These very Hindus, let it be noted, do not so much as hesitate or inquire when during illness the doctor administers them wine or prescribes beef tea or a Musalman or Christian compounder gives them water. Our stay in Shantiniketan had taught us that the scavenger’s work would be our

• From The Incendiaries (2018)

  One night, months ago, I’d called Phoebe, and she kept answering, but without saying a word. I heard what sounded like static; I strained to recognize faint, mingled voices. I thought I could make out Phoebe’s, and I was frantic to think she might be injured, trying to respond but unable to talk. I hollered, asking anyone to tell me what was going on. But it was just Phoebe’s hip, picking up. I had the idea, at last, of calling others: Julian, Liesl, until I had Phoebe on the line again. What were you so worried about? she asked, laughing. Oh, Will. You’re a lunatic. I’m fine, you poor thing. I’ll be home in a little while. – The following evening, unable to face the long hours of searching online, I invited Leigh to the apartment. We sat down to stir-fried bigoli, I burned my mouth with a pull of gin, and I talked. Leigh listened, eyes filling. She stayed the night, but then, in two days, when she turned up on the doorstep without notice, I thought I’d made a mistake: I’d led the girl to expect more than I could give. The bell pealed, and I threw on a shirt, but it was Leigh. She surged up in front of me, papers in hand. I ran straight here, she panted. Flapping newsprint at me like a broken wing, she told me that, as she passed the Ledig Street kiosk, she’d noticed Phoebe’s name in bold print on the front pages. I took the papers, which showed a blurred photo of a girl who looked like Phoebe, in a baseball cap, the thin face angling up. Puzzled, I examined the picture. In it, a black-haired ponytail curled through the adjustable slot, but Phoebe disliked how she looked in hats. Unless it was so cold that she had no choice, she didn’t use hats, let alone baseball caps. What’s this? I said. It’s a picture from the Noxhurst clinic. The parking-lot camera. Will, they’re saying she planted the explosives. The ones at Phipps clinic. Well, that’s not right. You should look at this. I read the article. It didn’t mention John Leal, let alone his cult. It said that, in the video, the girl in the baseball cap walked up to the clinic, then glanced at the camera. She’d been identified as Phoebe Haejin Lin, an Edwards student. The next morning, five additional Jejah cultists were named, including a new person I didn’t recognize: all suspects, but Phoebe was still the principal culprit implicated in the Noxhurst clinic explosions, and so in the five girls’ deaths.

• From The Incendiaries (2018)

  It was close to midnight when I walked home with Phoebe. She’d lent the car to Julian. He was in New Haven, visiting old boarding-school friends. The night was mild. I’d fallen behind with studying, and I was tired. I hadn’t slept; I wished to be home. I’d have proposed calling a taxi, but, the previous evening, I’d discovered I didn’t have my half of the month’s rent. I was still working a partial load at Michelangelo’s, a few night shifts each week. Ling had offered me a follow-up research position, a role extending the last project; I turned it down, since I had no time. I referred him to a fellow Phi Epsilon. Short of options, I had to activate a credit card I’d once received, unsolicited, in the mail. I didn’t want the debt. I’d learned what harm a credit habit might inflict. I’d kept the card just in case, for emergencies, positive I wouldn’t use it. But then, last night, I’d pulled a label off the plastic, the adhesive giving up its hold with sickening ease: like mother, like son. What’s more, if I went to the march, I’d have to switch Saturday’s shift for a less profitable slot. More cash lost. The trip would involve spending, too. I wanted to quiz Phoebe as to what she thought of it. By the time I joined Jejah, they’d stopped picketing Phipps clinic; why, she hadn’t known. She’d never protested the clinic, she’d said, but she believed, as I did, that abortions should remain legal. I didn’t think she could have changed her mind. We waited at the light. Instead, while a flesh-pink neon sign, Tivoli, fizzed behind us, I asked about the first gulag story he’d told. The pregnant girl, I said. Lina. Mina. She was kicked in the stomach. You told me about it: she died, then trailed him. Is this one girl? I saw a taxi turning, its sign lit. No, they couldn’t be, Phoebe said, at last. I flagged down the cab. In silence, we rode home. I’ve examined this night, Phoebe. I’ve rethought what I said to you, and I’m still sure of this much: I kept quiet a long time, then I asked a single question.

• From Macho Sluts (1988)

  I stood in the middle of the kitchen with a dirty plate in my hand, not sure where to go or what to do. “I feel awkward,” I said, so softly I wasn’t sure she would hear me, and put the dish gently on the edge of the table. “Dammit, I’m out of cigarettes,” she complained, hunting through a drawer. “I’ll have to go out and get some.” I tried to picture myself doing these things with her—emptying a dishwasher, walking down to the store for cigarettes—and decided it was easier to pour myself another cup of coffee. When I turned around from the stove, she was sitting at the table again, so I sat beside her. She took my hand, turned it over, and slipped her finger under the leather bracelet. “I—uh—yes, I feel a little strained myself. Everything I want to say sounds like the understatement of the year. How shall I put it? I had a great time last night?” Did you? said her eyes. I paused a little, not wanting to sound too glib. “It was the best,” I shrugged. My voice was high and unconvincing. “It was the best ever,” I repeated firmly. “I guess that’s what makes today so difficult.” “Yeah. I hardly know you—I don’t know if you play piano, I don’t know what kind of business it is you run, I don’t know your shoe size—but I know you better than anyone else in the world.” I nodded. “Instant intimacy,” I said flippantly. I was shaking cold inside, getting ready to run scared. “So what do we do?” she asked me. “I’m tempted to either lock you in my closet or bounce you down the front steps. I hate to let go of something that was so good, but I’m afraid I’ll spoil it if I try to hang on. I’m afraid to try again, for fear it won’t be the same.” “Shit, Jessie, I don’t know what I want from you.” Anger had crept into my voice. She shouldn’t be asking me what I wanted. It was way out of character. Then I got pissed at myself. I had a lot of nerve, expecting her to play master at the breakfast table. It would be stupid to think she hadn’t asked me what I wanted every step of the way. Okay, so she didn’t tip her hat and say, “Miss Liz, would you keep company with me?” But she was checking me out constantly. I could have said no any time. She was asking me an honest question, and I’d better get my act together. “I know I don’t want a twenty-four-hour-a-day S/M relationship,” I said quietly. “I’m not a social masochist. I enjoy taking care of Number One like any reasonably sane, adult woman.” She grinned with relief. “Hey, that’s not what I want, either. I can’t top somebody full-time.

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

  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

• From Macho Sluts (1988)

  I’m having trouble holding my head up. Sweat is running down my forehead and I can’t wipe it off, so it runs into my eyes and stings. My hands are completely numb, and so are my forearms, all the way up to the elbow. I can’t tell if I am still gripping your labia or not. I can only tell by the shape of the clit in my mouth just how far back I’m still managing to keep them. I am angry with you because you are taking so long, angry because you leave me alone down here, with no idea what is going on with you, if you are enjoying it or not, no indication of how close you are, how much longer it’s going to take. I want to shout, “Are you ever going to come?” I desperately need some help, and I begin to whisper, “please, please,” sometimes loud enough for you to hear me. Any kind of groan or sigh you make is of life-or-death importance to me now and keeps me going for a few more minutes. But I feel as if I am hanging from a cliff face by my skinned and bleeding palms, and I know I cannot hold on to the bare rock for much longer. I begin to wonder if you are in a good enough space to be able to hold your cunt open for me for a few minutes, maybe take a break long enough for me to get a drink of water and work the blood back into my hands. I am never sure. Sometimes a request like this is enough to make you feel so guilty for “taking too long” that you break things off. I don’t want you to stop me now. I badly need to continue, to keep going, to keep you open to me, keep you believing in me and trusting and needing me. The safety of my whole world seems to depend on being granted the privilege of continuing to go down on you. Patiently, persistently, carefully, in agony and self-doubt, I keep caressing you, trying to duplicate again and again the same exact pattern of motion and pressure, the same degree of wetness and friction, and if you move or make a noise, I stop for a fraction of an instant, record what I was doing when you responded, and then try to make a copy of it between my lips and your sex. There is an erotic pressure between my own legs, a need to be fucked, to come, but I won’t let myself build up and cry out, thrashing against the mattress, one more time. I need you now, your orgasm, your climax, to put out the fire that’s raging inside of me. My own climax would bleed energy off from you, energy that you need to come.

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

  CASE WITHDRAWN The trial began, The Government pleader, the Magistrate and other officials were on tenterhooks. They were at a loss to know what to do. The Government pleader was pressing the Magistrate to postpone the case. But I interfered and requested the Magistrate not to postpone the case, as I wanted to plead guilty to having disobeyed the order to leave Champaran and read a brief statement as follows: ‘With the permission of the Court I would like to make a brief statement showing why I have taken the very serious step of seemingly disobeying the order passed under section 144 of Cr. P.C. In my humble opinion it is a question of difference of opinion between the Local Administration and myself. I have entered the country with motives of rendering humanitarian and national service. I have done so in response to a pressing invitation to come and help the ryots. Who urge they are not being fairly treated by the indigo planters. I could not render any help without studying the problem. I have, therefore, come to study it with the assistance, if possible, of the Administration and the planters. I have no other motive, and cannot believe that my coming can in any way disturb public peace and cause loss of life. I claim to have considerable experience in such matters. The Administration, however, have thought differently. I fully appreciate their difficulty, and I admit too that they can only proceed upon information they received. As a law-abiding citizen my first instinct would be, as it was, to obey the order served upon me. But I could not do so without doing violence to my sense of duty to those for whom I have come. I feel that I could just now serve them only by remaining in their midst. I could not, therefore, voluntarily retire. Amid this conflict of duties I could only throw the responsibility of removing me from them on the Administration. I am fully

• From The Incendiaries (2018)

  Will, Phoebe called, leaning out from an idling cab. She took me to the station, waiting until the first train that would go north to Noxhurst. Once it pulled in, she talked the attendant into letting her on without a ticket. He doesn’t feel well, and I’m not staying, she explained, giving him her smile. Here, she said, pushing my seat into a recline. I tried to apologize, but she said she had to get back to the protest. She set my phone’s alarm to ring before my stop. What about the apartment? I asked, remembering. Your friend’s place. Oh, that, she said. She took out her phone. I was about to say I could wait in the apartment until the protest finished, but she said, still looking at the phone, I’m staying the night. From the train, I watched Phoebe go, striding fast, horizontal. I’d have left the train, chased Phoebe down, if I’d been less to blame. The train slid into the afternoon, and I slept until the Noxhurst station. – Up through the next morning, in spite of what she’d said, I still thought Phoebe would come back Saturday night. But I woke Sunday to find she wasn’t home. She also hadn’t returned my calls. I should have studied; I opened a book, stared at it as long as I could, then poured a drink. I sat in the apartment through morning: I took a bus to Michelangelo’s. Though I didn’t have a shift, I helped at the front until I noticed a five-top littered with used plates. I carried them back to the kitchen, spilling pesto on my shirt. I dropped a knife. I took the table’s busboy out back, and I yelled at him. I asked what the fuck he’d been thinking. Looking down, he muttered that it wasn’t his table. It’s Gil’s, he said, his childish face bagged with fatigue. I excused him. I left, riding the bus home again. The sun went down, and I called Phoebe. I left a short message asking if she’d let me know she was all right. Relying on the principle that almost nothing happens as I think it will, I started ticking through possible disasters. What I predicted, I’d forestall. I sat at the kitchen table. Each time I emptied a glass, I poured the next drink. It was 3:10 in the morning when the front door swung open. She stood in the hall, half-dissolved in porch light. Easing the lock into its slot, she set down a bag. She turned. Oh, she said, startled. It’s you. What are you doing? I closed the laptop, and, with it, all the light I’d had. I’d been searching traffic-accident reports. She flicked on the hall lamp. I saw Phoebe take in the gin bottle, the knit hat I still hadn’t removed. Will, she said. I told you I was staying the night. I didn’t know when you’d be home. I kept calling.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  2 The motoring, of course, was the most tremendous fun, but—and it was a very large but indeed—when Stephen got home to Morton and the schoolroom, a little grey figure would be sitting at the table correcting an exercise book, or preparing some task for the following morning. The little grey figure might look up and smile, and when it did this its face would be charming; but if it refrained from smiling, then its face would be ugly, too hard and too square in formation—except for the brow, which was rounded and shiny like a bare intellectual knee. If the little grey figure got up from the table, you were struck by the fact that it seemed square all over—square shoulders, square hips, a flat, square line of bosom; square tips to the fingers, square toes to the shoes, and all tiny; it suggested a miniature box that was neatly spliced at the corners. Of uncertain age, pale, with iron-grey hair, grey eyes, and invariably dressed in dark grey, Miss Puddleton did not look very inspiring—not at all as one having authority, in fact. But on close observation it had to be admitted that her chin, though minute, was extremely aggressive. Her mouth, too, was firm, except when its firmness was melted by the warmth and humour of her smile—a smile that mocked, pitied and questioned the world, and perhaps Miss Puddleton as well. From the very first moment of Miss Puddleton’s arrival, Stephen had had an uncomfortable conviction that this queer little woman was going to mean something, was going to become a fixture. And sure enough she had settled down at once, so that in less than two months it seemed to Stephen that Miss Puddleton must always have been at Morton, must always have been sitting at the large walnut table, must always have been saying in that dry, toneless voice with the Oxford accent: ‘You’ve forgotten something, Stephen,’ and then, ‘the books can’t walk to the bookcase, but you can, so suppose that you take them with you.’ It was truly amazing, the change in the schoolroom, not a book out of place, not a shelf in disorder; even the box lounge had had to be opened and its dumb-bells and clubs paired off nicely together—Miss Puddleton always liked things to be paired, perhaps an unrecognized matrimonial instinct. And now Stephen found herself put into harness for the first time in her life, and she loathed the sensation. There were so many rules that a very large time-sheet had had to be fastened to the blackboard in the schoolroom. ‘Because,’ said Miss Puddleton as she pinned the thing up, ‘even my brain won’t stand your complete lack of method, it’s infectious; this time-sheet is my anti-toxin, so please don’t tear it to pieces!’ Mathematics and algebra, Latin and Greek, Roman history, Greek history, geometry, botany, they reduced Stephen’s mind to a species of beehive in which every bee buzzed on the least provocation.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Then Mary would flare out with sudden anger, her mood changing as she felt a slight tug on the bridle. Were they to have no friends? she would ask. Were they to sit still and let the world crush them? If they were reduced to the bars of Paris, whose fault was that? Not hers and not Stephen’s. Oh, no, it was the fault of the Lady Annas and the Lady Masseys who had closed their doors, so afraid were they of contamination! Stephen would sit with her head on her hand, searching her sorely troubled mind for some ray of light, some adequate answer. 4 Tuat winter Barbara fell very ill. Jamie rushed round to the house one morning, hatless, and with deeply tormented eyes: “Mary, please come — Barbara can’t get up, it’s a pain in her side. Oh, my God — we quarrelled . . . Her voice was shrill and she spoke very fast: “ Listen — last night — there was snow on the ground, it was cold—I was angry . . . I can’t remem- ber . . . but I know I was angry —I get like that. She went out — 460 THE WELL OF LONELINESS she stayed out for quite two hours, and when she came back she was shivering so. Oh, my God, but why did we quarrel, what- ever? She can’t move; it’s an awful pain in her side . . Y Stephen said quietly: ‘ We’ll come almost at once, but first I’m going to ring up my own doctor.’ 5 Barsara was lying in the tiny room with the eye-shaped window that would not open. The stove had gone out in the studio, and the air was heavy with cold and dampness. On the piano lay some remnants of manuscript music torn up on the previous evening by Jamie. Barbara opened her eyes: ‘ Is that you, my bairn? ’ They had never heard Barbara call her that before — the great, lumbering, big-boned, long-legged Jamie. SEY Covet Sallie. t “Come here close . . . ’ The voice drifted away. “I’m here — oh, I’m here! I’ve got hold of your hand. Look at me, open your eyes again — Barbara, listen, I’m here — don’t you feel me? ’ Stephen tried to restrain the shrill, agonized voice: ‘ Don’t speak so loud, Jamie, perhaps she’s sleeping;’ but she knew very well that this was not so; the girl was not sleeping now, but unconscious.