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 367 of 501 · 20 per page

• From Summer Sisters (1998)

  It was New Year’s Eve. They’d thought of her, just as she’d thought of them. Old friends. Coming of age together. The end of one decade, the beginning of another. 40ON A WEDNESDAY morning in late March, just after Vix stepped out of the shower, the phone rang. It was the woman named Frankie calling from Santa Fe. Vix’s father had had chest pains during the night. He was in the hospital. They didn’t know yet how serious it might be. Could she come right away? She called Angela, her boss, at home, explained the situation, threw some things into a bag, and headed for the airport. The news in Santa Fe was better than she’d expected. Her father had had a severe angina attack, but no real heart damage. By the time she got there they’d done angioplasty to remove the blockage. He was asleep. Frankie, an ample woman in sweats, with rusty hair, freckled skin, and fringed moccasins, gave Vix a hug. “Thanks for coming, sweetheart. We’re mighty lucky.” Vix excused herself to use the public phone in the hall where she called Tawny. “I’m in Santa Fe,” she told her. “Dad’s sick … it’s his heart.” For a minute Tawny didn’t respond and Vix thought they’d been disconnected. “Hello …” she said. “Are you still there?” “I’m here,” Tawny said quietly. “Does it look serious?” “How can it not be serious? I just told you, it’s his heart!” “Get hold of yourself, Victoria. They can do a lot these days. There are procedures …” “He’s already had the procedure.” “That’s good.” “Are you coming? That’s all I want to know.” “I’m not married to him anymore. He’s not my responsibility.” “I didn’t know the divorce was final.” “It’s final enough.” “Well, nobody told me.” “How can I tell you if you never call?” “I have a phone, too, you know, but I haven’t had any calls from Key West lately.” She waited for Tawny to say something. Anything. When she didn’t, Vix said, “Is that it, then? That’s all you have to say about the man you were married to for …” She tried to remember how many years it had been. “Send your father my wishes for a speedy recovery, Victoria.” “Send them yourself!” She slammed the receiver down, then looked around, chagrined, as the other people in the waiting room quickly looked away. After all, they had their own problems. She had no idea how to get in touch with Lewis so she tried Lanie’s number next. Amber answered. “Mommy’s in the bathroom with Ryan. He’s got diarrhea. Who’s this?” “Aunt Victoria, from New York.” “Mom …” Amber shouted into the phone, “it’s Anti-Vix!” She pronounced it as if it were some right wing political group. “Mommy says hang on. She’s coming.” “Well, this is a surprise,” Lanie said. “I’m in Santa Fe. At the hospital.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  —No —responde, y puedo escuchar el humor en su voz—. Quédense afuera y diviértanse. Hagan sus cosas. Yo solo… —Hace una pausa por un momento y luego continúa—: Sabes, no te preocupas por cosas que desconoces. Cuando Cole no vivía conmigo, no siempre sabía dónde estaba o qué estaba tramando, así que no pensaba al respecto todo el tiempo. Ahora, ustedes dos viviendo bajo mi techo, parece que me preocupo constantemente. —Suelta una carcajada—. Ese bar es peligroso. Solo quería asegurarme que saliste del trabajo de forma segura y que todo está bien. Solo estoy… asegurándome. No me ofende su comentario. No es mi bar, después de todo, y sí, es peligroso. Estoy tentada a ver si quiere venir a buscarme después de todo, ya que está despierto, pero mi orgullo no me deja. No quiero ser un problema. Y definitivamente no quiero ser responsable de crear problemas entre él y Cole. Puedo pelear mis propias batallas. —Sí. Todo está bien —miento, agregando un poco de burla a mi voz—. No soy una niña, ¿sabes? —De alguna forma lo eres. Resoplo. Bueno, niña o no, creo que es bueno tener a alguien que cuide de mí. —¿Llamaste a Cole también? —pregunto. Pero no responde. En su lugar escucho un fuerte golpe y algo moviéndose. —Mierda —gruñe. Mis ojos se abren, asustándome. —¿Qué pasa? —El maldito microondas no funciona bien —gruñe—. Sabía que no debí haberlo reemplazado solo para que coincidiera con los otros electrodomésticos nuevos, maldición. No hace palomitas de maíz. Estrecho mis ojos, pero quiero reírme mucho. Se altera tanto. —Hay un botón para las palomitas de maíz —le recuerdo. —¡Lo presioné! —¿Dos veces? —¿Por qué tendría que presionarlo dos veces? —responde como si fuera estúpida. —Porque el tamaño de las bolsas que usas toma tres o cinco minutos de cocción —señalo. —Lo sé. —Bueno, en tu nuevo horno de microondas, al presionarlo una vez solo le da dos minutos de cocción. Para las bolsas más pequeñas —aclaro—. Necesitas presionar dos veces para poner el minuto correcto. Hay silencio y luego escucho un murmullo. —Oh. Aprieto mis labios para no reírme. Su desamparo por esto es bastante divertido. Ojalá estuviera allí. —Bueno —dice después de un breve silencio—, supongo que te dejaré ir entonces. —Oye, espera —le digo, deteniéndolo. Me detengo, insegura de cómo decir esto. —¿Te importa si te pregunto algo? —digo finalmente. —No, supongo. Me humedezco los labios, vacilante. No quiero ofenderlo, pero tengo curiosidad. —¿Dónde están todas tus cosas de la casa? —pregunto. —¿Qué? Respiro hondo, preparándome. —Hay muebles, pero no mucho más. No parece que vivas allí. ¿Por qué? El otro lado del teléfono está en silencio, y dejo de respirar, con miedo de no escucharlo hablar.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Pero luego recuerdo lo duro que tiraron de ella al escenario esta noche, obviamente, decidiendo que un concurso de camisetas mojadas no era para ella, sin importar si se había vestido para eso o no. Suelto un bufido, recordando la forma en que protestó. —Ni siquiera sé lo que me preocupa —digo, mi voz llena de humor—. Eres una buena chica. No tienes lo que se necesita para trabajar allí. —No soy una niña. Presiono mis labios para dejar de sonreír, pero es difícil. Lo sé, lo sé, es una mujer. —¿Y si entran Dutch o ese pequeño idiota Jay o cualquiera de los tipos que trabajan para mí? —presiono—. ¿Podrías usar un bikini detrás de la barra y servirles bebidas, o peor aún, quitarte la ropa y bailar para ellos? ¿Dejar que te usen para correrse? ¿Sentarte en sus regazos y frotarte contra ellos por cuarenta dólares? No puedo evitar reír entre dientes ante la ridícula idea. Si realmente lo piensa y se pone mentalmente en esa situación, sabrá que es absurdo. Gira su cabeza hacia mí. —¿Te estás riendo de mí? —Estoy diciendo que te conozco —le digo, nivelando mi tono—. Tú y yo sabemos que no tienes más agallas de las que yo tendría, así que vamos a dejar de perder el tiempo discutiendo sobre algo que nunca sucederá. Mira hacia adelante y se queda en silencio, pero veo su mandíbula tensa mientras mira por el parabrisas. Asumir que conozco su mente más de lo que ella lo hace probablemente sea condescendiente, pero está actuando de manera infantil, manteniendo esta pretensión. Tiene más sentido común que eso, y no me gustan los juegos. Sabe que nunca podrá tratar con esos clientes, y definitivamente no puede desnudarse y bailar desnuda. Probablemente estaría tan avergonzada de que la vieran que rompería a llorar. Sin embargo, siete minutos después, me detengo en el camino de entrada y salta antes que incluso haya apagado el motor. —¿Jordan? —llamo, abriendo mi puerta. ¿Qué demonios? No vamos a pelear de nuevo, ¿verdad? Pero mira por encima del hombro mientras camina hacia el porche. —Solo voy a entrar por mi traje de baño. Me quedo allí, girando el llavero en mi dedo. Estáaa biien.

• From Summer Sisters (1998)

  Yes … I’m afraid so . Her mother breathes a heavy sigh. Well, I’m certainly relieved. Just make sure it stays that way . 34ON THE DAY Vix moved back into Leverett House to begin her senior year, Caitlin took off from LAX, on her way to Rio. “Think of it,” she’d said to Vix. “Santiago, Lima, Buenos Aires … doesn’t it sound exotic?” By then Vix was used to the way Caitlin flitted around the world, like a bumblebee in search of the most exotic blossom. She’d lost interest in trying to dissuade her. Caitlin had her tuition money to blow on travel. She had a trust fund waiting. “Well …” Abby said, “she’ll always be able to find a job as an interpreter.” Abby never stopped trying to come up with a positive take on the children . Vix didn’t tell Abby Caitlin said the best way to learn a foreign language was to fuck interesting people. She was too busy wondering and worrying about what was to come to devote any time or energy to Caitlin. And she wasn’t alone. They all had senioritis . Though the end of their undergraduate days was in sight none of them felt ready for the real world, for life after college. Abby said, “That’s why graduate school was invented.” She urged Vix to take the LSAT or to think about The B-School. Some of Vix’s friends were apply ing to graduate schools but others, like her, felt they needed to get out there. She couldn’t go on as Abby’s pet, as her personal charity. She’d changed her concentration from English Literature to Social Anthropology during her junior year and had come up with what she hoped was an innovative idea for her senior thesis. Five Minutes in Heaven . Not the kissing game of Paisley’s youth, but a video featuring disabled kids talking about their ideas of heaven. A thesis dedicated to Nathan. She would interview the kids on tape, then capture their ideas with stock footage and composites. If it was difficult to understand what they were saying, the way it would have been with Nathan, she’d use subtitles. To find the right kids she’d have to talk to twenty, maybe thirty. Somehow, she convinced Natalie Ponzo, professor of anthropology, to serve as her mentor. Maia couldn’t believe her chutzpah. She’d spent time in the editing room in the basement of Boyleston Hall last year, with a friend, Jocelyn, who was working on her senior thesis. From the moment she walked in and watched Jocelyn at work, she was hooked. Editing was like putting together jigsaw puzzles. You started off with a million little pieces and, if you did it right, wound up telling a coherent, interesting story. Jocelyn was Haitian, from Brooklyn, and dreamed of making important documentaries like Fred Wiseman. But her father was pushing for law school.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Pero no es él quien rodea la esquina. Jordan está vestida con unos vaqueros ajustados de color azul oscuro, enrollados en la parte inferior, con Chucks, y se está recogiendo el cabello en una coleta mientras intenta sostener un impermeable amarillo bajo su brazo. Estrecho mis ojos hacía ella. —¿Dónde está Cole? —Está, eh… no se siente muy bien —responde, poniéndose la chaqueta—. Sin embargo, iré y te ayudaré. No se siente bien. ¿Código para resaca? —No, está bien —le digo—. Quédate aquí. Es más seguro. Aunque, gracias. Alza los ojos, se concentran en mí y luego se estrechan. —¿Más seguro? —pregunta como si acabara de decir que saldré a hacerme la pedicura—. ¿O simplemente te preocupa que pases más tiempo sosteniendo mi mano que haciendo algo del trabajo? Intento mantener una expresión seria. Es muy inteligente. De acuerdo, sí, lo siento, cariño, pero sí. Al menos Cole tiene algo de experiencia, un poco, que yo sepa, pero algo, al ayudarme durante los veranos y los fines de semana. No necesito desviarme para explicar las instrucciones en lugar de darlas hoy. —Te diré qué… —Se abrocha el impermeable, su actitud dulce y tímida es reemplazada lentamente por una actitud más determinada—. Si la señorita no puede soportar un poco de lluvia en el cabello o el barro debajo de las uñas, entonces volverá a la camioneta y te esperará. Donde es seguro. ¿De acuerdo? Y luego arquea una ceja hacia mí como si ni siquiera debiera responder a eso. Ni siquiera sé cómo hacerlo, porque mi cerebro ahora está en blanco, y olvido por qué tengo un termo en la mano. Sacudo la cabeza para despejarla y abro la puerta. —Está bien. Sube a la camioneta. Esta maldita tormenta vino de la nada. Siempre miro el clima porque a veces determina si podemos trabajar en todo ese día, así que es muy importante. Especialmente durante el verano. Sin embargo, pensé que esta tormenta se desviaría y se dirigiría hacia el norte. Apago el motor y subo la cremallera de mi chaqueta, escudriñando por el parabrisas delantero. El aguacero está difuminando todo más allá del cristal, pero veo un destello naranja y un casco amarillo que flota unos metros más adelante y sé que algunos de los muchachos ya están aquí. Jordan levanta su capucha a mi lado, pero no la miro ni le digo qué hacer. Puede seguir mi ejemplo si quiere estar aquí.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  —Mierda —sisea. Lo beso en la mejilla y le mordisqueo la mandíbula. —Bebé, solo un minuto. —Se sienta, y me deslizo, dejándolo atender la llamada. Balancea sus piernas sobre el costado de la cama y responde el teléfono. Tiro la sábana, cubriéndome. —Hola. —Lo escucho decir. Oigo una fuerte voz masculina en el otro extremo, y creo que es Cole. —Sí —responde Pike, enderezando la espalda y pasándose la mano por el cabello—. Sí, lo siento, he estado muy ocupado, no me di cuenta que era urgente. Cole habla de nuevo, y no creo que Pike esté respirando. —Cole, yo... Cole lo interrumpe y Pike sigue quieto mientras escucha. —No, no creo que eso sea bueno. Es interrumpido de nuevo cuando Cole habla. Después de un momento, lo veo jadear y asentir. —Sí —dice—. Está bien... sí. Bien. Te veo mañana. Cuelga el teléfono y lo tira sobre la cama, cayendo de espaldas y frotándose el rostro. —¿Qué pasa? —pregunto. —¿Quieres decir algo más que hablar por teléfono con mi hijo mientras su ex novia está desnuda en la cama junto a mí? a regañadientes, finalmente suspira y se aleja. Levantando el teléfono, mira la pantalla. —En realidad, tenemos un problema mayor que eso. Prepárate. Frunzo el ceño. Inclina la cabeza hacia atrás y me mira. —Puse sábanas y mantas en el sofá —le digo, caminando hacia la cocina—. El refrigerador está lleno. Siéntanse como en casa. Cole y su madre me siguen adentro, la puerta de entrada se cierra y todo menos

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Evito su mirada, dejo caer el trapo de cocina en el cubo de agua caliente y tomo uno nuevo, limpiando las mismas botellas de licor que ya limpié esta tarde. Siento sus ojos en mí. —Jordan, ¿en qué te has metido? Mi barbilla tiembla y las lágrimas pican en la parte posterior de mis ojos. —Nada —digo, todavía sin mirarla—. Estaré bien. Un mesero sale de la cocina con comida y camino alrededor de uno de los otros meseros que regresa con una nueva botella de Captain del armario de licores. Pienso por un momento, intentando determinar qué puedo hacer después y finalmente me agacho para recuperar un paquete de servilletas de un gabinete. Abriéndolo, empiezo a rellenar uno de los contenedores en la barra. —Vete a casa —dice Shel, poniendo su mano sobre el contenedor—. Duerme un poco. —Estoy bien. Prefiero estar aquí. —Si no vas a casa, entonces ve a casa de tu hermana —sugiere—. Solo, por favor, descansa un poco. Si trabajas más horas hoy, no podrás conducir a casa esta noche. Te veré mañana. Abro mi boca para discutir, pero simplemente sacude su cabeza hacia mí, sabiendo lo que estoy a punto de decir. —No soy tu mamá —señala—, pero soy tan buena como una. Necesitas dormir. Consigue algo de comida de la cocina y vete. Por favor. **** Hago lo que dice Shel, me preparo un sándwich que no tengo ganas de comerme y subo a mi auto, encendiendo el motor. Una canción de Alice Cooper está sonando en la estación de los 80’s que tengo sintonizada, pero la apago, no estoy de humor para el escape que generalmente anhelo. Casa. Me toma unos buenos veinte minutos conducir sin rumbo por la ciudad, perdida en mi cabeza, antes de decidir a qué casa es a la que voy. Necesito ropa y mis libros escolares y aunque no quiero ver a Pike, ni a Cole, ni a su madre, no puedo utilizar el maquillaje de mi hermana por otro día. Todo tiene brillos en él. Al llegar a Windy Park Place, observo el flujo de autos y camionetas que bordean ambos lados de la calle, así como todo el camino de la entrada de Pike. Algunos vehículos los reconozco, otros no, pero me meto en un espacio entre dos autos frente a la casa de Cramer y veo las luces que salen por encima de la cerca de Pike en su patio trasero.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  De todos modos, probablemente el volante sea de Cole. Pero por reflejo, le doy la vuelta y veo la escritura en la parte posterior. ¡¡Haz ese $, chica!! Arqueo una ceja. ¿Esto es de Jordan? Es de The Hook. ¿Su hermana le dio esto? Jesús, ¿qué le pasa a esa chica? ¿Quién animaría a su hermana menor a participar en un concurso de camisetas mojadas, por el amor de Dios? Aunque por otro lado, no es esta noche y ella lo desechó, así que eso es algo bueno. Pero ahora estoy ansioso. Me gusta la chica. No quiero que sienta que tiene que hacer mierdas como esta para ganar dinero. No los estoy echando de mi casa, ¿o sí? Arrojo el papel y froto mi cuero cabelludo, exasperado. A Dutch le gusta meterse con la gente, especialmente conmigo, pero sí durmió en una mesa de billar porque era demasiado orgullosa para pedir ayuda. No toma las mejores decisiones. Gruño, sabiendo que ahora no me voy a relajar. Deslizando mi teléfono en mi bolsillo, tomo mis llaves y apago las luces antes de salir de la casa. Subiendo a mi camioneta, enciendo el motor y prendo la radio lo más alto que puedo soportarlo para distraerme de la preocupación acumulándose en mis entrañas. Solo tuvo que llamar e inventar una mierda, ¿cierto? Aunque parecía más entretenido que angustiado, por lo que probablemente estaba fastidiándome. Solo quiere que salga de la casa. Toma menos de diez minutos llegar a Grounders y encuentro un espacio de estacionamiento a la vuelta de la esquina, no demasiado lejos. Puedo escuchar la música desde aquí y me pregunto si las ligas locales tuvieron algunos partidos de béisbol esta noche y todos siguen celebrando. Portándose mal. Sacudo mi cabeza, abriendo la puerta. La chica no sabe el significado de la palabra. Es tan buena como el oro. Respirando profundamente, abro la puerta y casi hago una mueca por el ruido. Es difícil de creer que, esto exactamente fue lo mío alguna vez. Addicted to Love resuena a través de terribles bocinas y las mesas redondas y altas están repletas de clientes. El bar está lleno, ni un solo taburete vacío y miro alrededor, viendo que las cabinas también están llenas. Algunas mujeres hacen cola para ir al baño, la mesa de billar está rodeada por espectadores y el aire es humeante y cargado. Ya puedo sentir los ojos sobre mí. Asiento hacia Calista Mankin mientras sus ojos se iluminan y me saluda, y veo a James Lowry por el rabillo mi ojo. Ambas personas probablemente solo las he visto cinco veces desde la escuela preparatoria y ya me siento incómodo. Mi mirada finalmente cae sobre Jordan mientras se para frente a la rocola, las páginas dan vuelta frente a ella mientras escanea la lista de reproducción a través del cristal. La multitud es densa, pero veo la parte de atrás de su cabeza. Reconocería su cabello en cualquier parte.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  No responde. Es la segunda vez que llamo en quince minutos, y también he estado enviando mensajes de texto sin suerte. ¿Pensaba seguir recordando de estar aquí a las dos? Termino la llamada y miro el reloj sobre la barra, viendo que ya es casi medianoche. Todavía dos horas, antes que mi novio piense que salí del trabajo y que necesito que me recoja. Y yo que pensaba que tendríamos una sorpresa esta noche, yo saliendo temprano. Mierda. Necesito arreglar mi auto. No puedo seguir confiando en él para que me lleve a todos lados. La música llena el aire a mi alrededor, los clientes ríen a mi derecha y uno de los otros camareros llena el refrigerador con hielo a mi izquierda. Siento unas punzadas de inquietud en la nuca. Si no responde, entonces está dormido o salió. Ambas cosas podrían significar que se acordará de mí después que sea demasiado tarde. No siempre es poco confiable, pero ésta tampoco sería la primera vez. Ese es el problema de hacer de tu amigo tu novio, supongo. Todavía piensa que puede salirse con la suya con cualquier cosa. Saco la camisa y la mochila del gabinete debajo de los grifos y meto el teléfono en mi bolsillo. Me pongo la camisa de franela sobre la blusa, la abotono y meto la parte delantera del dobladillo en mis jeans, tapándome. Me visto un poco sexy para conseguir propinas, pero no voy a salir de aquí de esta manera. —¿A dónde vas? —pregunta Shel, mirándome mientras saca una cerveza. Miro a mi jefa, su cabello negro con mechones rubios en la parte superior de su cabeza y una cadena de pequeños corazones tatuados alrededor de su antebrazo. —Hay una función de medianoche de Evil Dead en The Grand Theatre — contesto mientras cierro el gabinete y deslizo la correa de mi bolso de cuero sobre mi cabeza—. Iré a matar el tiempo y esperaré allí a Cole.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Subo a la camioneta con Jordan y me quito la chaqueta mojada, mientras ella se abrocha el cinturón de seguridad junto a mí. Enciendo el motor y espero a que el estacionamiento se despeje un poco antes de finalmente salir, ambos en silencio. Hace tanto silencio de repente, y me doy cuenta que la lluvia había sido tan constante durante las últimas horas que no había podido escuchar una voz a menos que se gritara. O un movimiento, a menos que fuera el mío. Ahora, mis oídos buscan instintivamente algo a lo que aferrarse, a la lluvia golpeando mi camioneta como balas de goma, la fricción del cuero en el volante en mi puño. El chapoteo de la lluvia debajo de los neumáticos cuando avanzo por la carretera, mi motor retumbando como una canción de cuna. Pero, aun así, es tan silencioso. Ella respira profundamente. Su abrigo cruje mientras desliza sus manos debajo de sus muslos. Escucho un suave clic y muevo mis ojos al piso donde está entrechocando suavemente sus zapatos. Se lame los labios, y hago una mueca. Jesús. Estirándome, enciendo la radio. Cualquier cosa para distraerme. No sé por qué estoy tan irritable hoy. No, sí lo sé. Desperté con Lindsay al teléfono. Es la última persona con la que quiero tratar a primera hora de la mañana. No es difícil pasar por alto lo feliz que era a la edad de Cole y Jordan, divertirme con todo lo que pudiera tener en mis manos y no forzarme a pensar demasiado en las decisiones que estaba tomando. Pero no mucho después de conocer a Lindsay, la factura de toda esa diversión caducó. Hice un niño con una niña que apenas conocía. Una mentirosa patológica y alguien que manipula como si fuera un maldito deporte. Y cuando me fui, lo dejé con ella. Cole nunca tuvo una oportunidad. La llevé a la corte, por supuesto, tratando de obtener la custodia, pero los jueces de esa época a menudo veían a la madre como la mejor opción, y ella sabía cómo apelar por simpatía. Quería a Cole, porque Cole significaba una manutención. Y ciertamente me sacó eso. Era como estar en prisión, tener que llevarlo con ella después de mis fines de semana con él. Ella retuerce las cosas en nudos, y eso es lo que le hizo a él. Para cuando tenía diez años, se ponía delante de ella si necesitaba decirle algo, y yo siempre estaba equivocado.

• From City of Night (1963)

  In the taxi he asked me have I eaten—and I have but I say no because I might as well make up for the greaseburgers earlier—you would too, as a citizen of the grubby world. “All right, we’ll go eat,” he said. This reminded him of A Funny Story. “I was in this Swank place once,” he says, “and at the table next to me is this old woman, see, and shes with this great big beautiful blond boy, probably she picked him off the docks, hes uncomfortable as hell in a tie—he says to the waiter, ‘I want wiver and onions.’ The woman’s embarrassed, see, she says in a low voice, ‘Dear, why dont we have some Chateaubriand?—it’s wonderful here.’ ‘Wiver and onions,’ he insists. ‘Some lobster?’ she say. ‘Wiver and onions! Wiver and onions!’ he kept repeating. It broke me up.” At the restaurant he isnt sure theyll let me in dressed in levis. “But it aint so swank,” he says, “and they know me here.” Inside, I ask for the most expensive steak, still remembering the greaseburgers.... He peers at me, half-smiling: “No wiver and onions for you, huh?” Later, in his apartment, he said, “Why are you so nervous, aint you been with a cocksucker before?—thats what I am, pal and I aint ashamed of it.” He got into a purple robe, and I lay back and fix my eyes on a picture on the wall: rainclouds, a sad tree draped in something like moss—a skeleton vine, I think. If I squint, the tree looks like a shawled Mexican woman. I stop looking at the picture immediately. I try to stop thinking.... I feel him touch my body—hesitantly at first, despite his bravado; then more freely, intimately. For one wild instant I want to run out.... Then I heard his voice; indignant: “Why are you holding it, for chrissake?” “So you wont bite.” I wish instantly I hadnt said that. He laughs, and Im relieved strangely. “Jesus!” he said. “You are green!... Where are you from?—the backward South somewhere?” I purposely didnt answer, trying to forget El Paso. I listen to the rain, to the Wind lashing at the windows. And I feel a mixture of panic and excitement—one moment as if somehow Im being liberated, at last; another moment as if Ive entered a world for which Im not really prepared. I move away from him. “Christ, what now?” he says, and he sat up abruptly. He wrapped the purple robe modestly about himself. “Hell,” he says, “you dont have to look at me.” He handed me a cigarette. “Whats your name, pal?” I told him my first name. Hes annoyed. “My name is Ed King,” he said precisely. “K-i-n-g. What the hell are people afraid of giving their last names for?...” Then almost gently: “Was that your first time on 42nd Street?” I told him yes.

• From St. Augustine's Confessions (2004)

  II. If the most important meaning of “confession” is “praise,” then we can look at the last four books as also providing praise, although in a different way. A. The first nine books are only one way of “praising.” B. The last four books also offer praise but in different ways. C. These books contain more overtly philosophical and theological material. D. But it is also important to point out that the philosophical and theological underpinnings of the first nine books are often not given sufficient attention. III. In Book X, Augustine is still reflecting on his life, but now, he is reflecting on his life in the present, as a bishop with all the responsibilities that office entails, rather than as a series of events leading up to his conversion. A. Because he is a bishop addressing his flock directly, he is concerned with misinterpretations that they might have had. 1. In the course of his reflections, he affirms that his flock ought to know who their bishop is. 2. This means, for Augustine, that he needs to tell the truth. He is not interested in being a spin doctor. 3. He realizes that he is someone with a past and that people may have heard stories about him. 4. He is also a famous writer by this time and must deal with the implications of that. 5. Thus, he is addressing those who “know me but who do not really know me.” B. Augustine believes that his confessions can make his readers his brothers and sisters, a model for those who are in his flock. C. He now understands more fully the power of storytelling, whether in the Bible or in the works of pagan writers. D. He considers himself part of a brotherhood with those, like Paul or Antony, who have taken a similar spiritual journey. IV. Augustine talks movingly about temptations in the present. A. He talks about the presence of temptation, especially sexual temptation. ©2004 The Teaching Company. 59

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

  The most terrifying aspect of her feelings was that she was unable to shrink back as before, to shut out the world, to become deaf, colorblind, and to throw herself into some long-drawn-out fantasy, which she had done as a girl to replace reality. She was obsessed with concerns for his safety, with anxiety over the dangerous life he led; she realized that he had not only penetrated her body but also her very being. Whenever she thought of his skin, his hair where the sun had bleached it a fine gold, his steady green eyes, flickering only at the moment when he bent over her to take her mouth between his strong lips, then her flesh vibrated, still responded to the image, and she was tortured. After hours of a pain so vivid and strong that she thought it would shatter her completely, she fell into a strange state of lethargy, a half-sleep. It was as if something had broken inside of her. She ceased to feel pain or pleasure. She was numb. The entire trip became unreal. Her body was dead again. AFTER EIGHT years of separation, Miguel had come to Paris. Miguel had come but was not bringing Elena any joy or relief, for he himself was the very symbol of her first defeat. Miguel was her first love. When she first met him they were mere children, two cousins lost at a huge family dinner of many cousins and aunts and uncles. Miguel had been drawn to Elena magnetically, following her like a shadow, listening to her every word, words no one could hear, her voice was so small and transparent. He wrote her letters from that day on, came to see her now and then during school holidays—a romantic attachment, in which each one used the other as the embodiment of the legend or story or novel they had read. Elena was every heroine; Miguel was every hero. When they met, they were enveloped in so much unreality that they could not touch each other. They did not even hold hands. They were exalted in each other’s presence, they soared together, they were moved by the same sensations. She was the first to experience a deeper emotion. They went to a dance together, unaware of their beauty. Other people were. Elena saw all the other young girls stare at Miguel and try to attract his attention. Then she saw him objectively, outside of this warm devotion in which she had enveloped him. He stood a few yards away, a very tall and lithe young man, his movements easy, graceful and strong, his muscles and nerves like those of a leopard, with a gliding walk but in readiness to spring. His eyes were leaf-green, fluid. His skin was luminous, a mysterious sun glow shining through it, like that of some phosphorescent undersea animal. His mouth was full, with a look of sensual hunger in it, with the perfect teeth of a predatory animal.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  ‘Wife,’ he said, ‘you have heard before that our marriage is unpopular with the people. Now that my son is born, the complaints and recriminations have grown ever louder. I am half dead with anxiety. The protests are making me ill. I can bear it no longer. ‘Do you know what they are saying? When I am gone, I will be succeeded by an offspring of the peasant Janiculus. This low-born wretch will be our lord. That is what they whisper to one another. I have to listen to their grievances, Griselda. I cannot ignore them, even if they never mention them in my presence. What if they were to rebel against me? ‘I want to live at peace with my subjects, as far as I am able. So this is what I propose. I propose to treat my son in the same way that I treated my daughter, under the cover of night and secrecy. I am telling you now so that you will not break out in passionate grief, or anything of that kind. I want you to be patient once again.’ ‘I have told you this before, sir,’ she said. ‘I will tell you again. I will do whatever you wish or request. If my son and daughter are killed - well, I will never grieve and never complain. I accept your commandments as my lord and master. I have had no part in my two children - except sickness and pain and sorrow. ‘You are our lord. You must do with us as you please. There is no need to consult me. When I left my home I did not just leave my old clothing behind me. I left my will and my liberty, too. On that occasion I put on the clothes you chose for me. In everything else, your choice is my command. Do as you wish, sir. I will obey you. ‘If I knew in advance what you wanted, I would hasten to perform it without even being told. Now I do know what you require of me. And I will not hesitate. If you ordered me to die in front of you, I would do so gladly. It would give me pleasure. Death is less powerful than my love for you.’ The marquis listened to his wife with averted eyes. He marvelled at her constancy, and wondered how it was possible for her to bear all the suffering he inflicted. He exulted inwardly, but he remained dour and grave in countenance. So the secret agent was dispatched once more to Griselda’s bedchamber where with even more brutality than before - if such a thing is possible - he snatched the pretty son as he had once snatched the daughter. Griselda was the model of forbearance. She did not lament or cry out. She kissed her little son, and made the sign of the cross upon his forehead.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  Justinus had been sitting quietly listening to Placebo. ‘Dear friend,’ he said to January. ‘Be patient with me. I have heard everything that has been said. I will add a few words of my own. Seneca has told us that a man must be careful, and think twice, before giving away his lands or his cattle. Since it is important to be sure about the recipient of your worldly goods, surely there is even more reason to scrutinize the person to whom you are giving away your body? You will never get it back. Marriage is not child’s play. You should never take a wife without very careful thought. You have to ask questions. You have to find out whether she is prudent or wasteful. You must know whether she is sober or a drunk. You do not want to marry a scold, do you, or a man-chaser? Or a bitch? It is important to discover, too, whether she is rich or poor. Don’t tie yourself down with a shrew, in other words. ‘Now I know that it will be impossible, in this fallen world, to find a woman who is perfect in every way. I give you that. Still you really ought to find out whether your wife-to-be has more good qualities than bad qualities. This will take time. But it is important. I should know. I have wept plentifully, and often, since I took a wife. Praise the married life all you like. But I personally have found it to be full of cost and care, of duties rather than pleasures. God knows that all my neighbours, especially the females, congratulate me on my choice of wife. They say that she is considerate and steady in the extreme. Yet I know where the shoe pinches. I know where it hurts. Of course, January, you must do as you please. But take my advice. You are a man of a certain age. Think very carefully before you take on a young and pretty wife. By Him who made heaven and earth, the youngest man among us would have trouble keeping on top of such a woman. Restraining her, I mean. Trust me. Within three years, she will be sick of you. You know what a wife needs, don’t you? Do you think you have the strength to fulfil all her desires? A wife asks for a lot, you know. I just hope that you are not riding for a fall.’ ‘Well,’ January replied. ‘Is that all you have to say? I don’t give a fuck for Seneca or for your own grave words. And as for your warnings, well, I dismiss them. They are a crock of shit. Wiser men than you, as you have heard, take quite a different view of my proposal. What do you say, Placebo?’ ‘I say, dear sir, that it is a serious matter - it is almost profane - to raise any impediment to holy matrimony.’

• From Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life (1994)

  But probably not. I’d get up and study my teeth in the mirror for a while. Then I’d stop, remember to breathe, make a few phone calls, hit the kitchen and chow down. Eventually I’d go back and sit down at my desk, and sigh for the next ten minutes. Finally I would pick up my one-inch picture frame, stare into it as if for the answer, and every time the answer would come: all I had to do was to write a really shitty first draft of, say, the opening paragraph. And no one was going to see it. So I’d start writing without reining myself in. It was almost just typing, just making my fingers move. And the writing would be terrible . I’d write a lead paragraph that was a whole page, even though the entire review could only be three pages long, and then I’d start writing up descriptions of the food, one dish at a time, bird by bird, and the critics would be sitting on my shoulders, commenting like cartoon characters. They’d be pretending to snore, or rolling their eyes at my overwrought descriptions, no matter how hard I tried to tone those descriptions down, no matter how conscious I was of what a friend said to me gently in my early days of restaurant reviewing. “Annie,” she said, “it is just a piece of chicken . It is just a bit of cake .” But because by then I had been writing for so long, I would eventually let myself trust the process—sort of, more or less. I’d write a first draft that was maybe twice as long as it should be, with a self-indulgent and boring beginning, stupefying descriptions of the meal, lots of quotes from my black-humored friends that made them sound more like the Manson girls than food lovers, and no ending to speak of. The whole thing would be so long and incoherent and hideous that for the rest of the day I’d obsess about getting creamed by a car before I could write a decent second draft. I’d worry that people would read what I’d written and believe that the accident had really been a suicide, that I had panicked because my talent was waning and my mind was shot. The next day, though, I’d sit down, go through it all with a colored pen, take out everything I possibly could, find a new lead somewhere on the second page, figure out a kicky place to end it, and then write a second draft. It always turned out fine, sometimes even funny and weird and helpful. I’d go over it one more time and mail it in. Then, a month later, when it was time for another review, the whole process would start again, complete with the fears that people would find my first draft before I could rewrite it.

• From Summer Sisters (1998)

  34 ON THE DAY Vix moved back into Leverett House to begin her senior year, Caitlin took off from LAX, on her way to Rio. “Think of it,” she’d said to Vix. “Santiago, Lima, Buenos Aires ... doesn’t it sound exotic?” By then Vix was used to the way Caitlin flitted around the world, like a bumblebee in search of the most exotic blossom. She’d lost interest in trying to dissuade her. Caitlin had her tuition money to blow on travel. She had a trust fund waiting. “Well ...” Abby said, “she’ll always be able to find a job as an interpreter.” Abby never stopped trying to come up with a positive take on the children. Vix didn’t tell Abby Caitlin said the best way to learn a foreign language was to fuck interesting people. She was too busy wondering and worrying about what was to come to devote any time or energy to Caitlin. And she wasn’t alone. They all had senioritis. Though the end of their undergraduate days was in sight none of them felt ready for the real world, for life after college. Abby said, “That’s why graduate school was invented.” She urged Vix to take the LSAT or to think about The B-School. Some of Vix’s friends were applying to graduate schools but others, like her, felt they needed to get out there. She couldn’t go on as Abby’s pet, as her personal charity. She’d changed her concentration from English Literature to Social Anthropology during her junior year and had come up with what she hoped was an innovative idea for her senior thesis. Five Minutes in Heaven. Not the kissing game of Paisley’s youth, but a video featuring disabled kids talking about their ideas of heaven. A thesis dedicated to Nathan. She would interview the kids on tape, then capture their ideas with stock footage and composites. If it was difficult to understand what they were saying, the way it would have been with Nathan, she’d use subtitles. To find the right kids she’d have to talk to twenty, maybe

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  Then return here in a year and a day. Before you go, you must give me your solemn pledge that you will come back and surrender yourself to the court.’ The knight sighed, filled with doubt and perplexity. How could he answer such a question? Yet he had no real choice in the matter. In the end he decided that he would obey the queen’s command. He would leave the court and return within a year and a day. He put his faith in God to find the right course for him, and jumped on to his horse. He tried every town and village, looking for enlightenment. ‘What is it,’ he said to one and all, ‘that women desire most?’ However hard he tried, he could not find a suitable answer. No two people agreed on the subject. Some said that women loved money the most; some said that they prized honour, and others pleasure. Some said that women wanted gorgeous clothes, but others chose sex as the main dish. Some said that women loved to be married, and widowed, often. Some said that they liked to be married and looked after in luxury. The knight was told that a man could win a woman with flattery. Or that any woman, young or old, rich or poor, could be caught by fuss and attention. Of course there were others who claimed that us women really wanted our liberty. We wanted to do as we pleased, and not to be judged. I think there is a lot of truth in that. Who wants to be told that she is acting immodestly? I’ll tell you one thing. If women are attacked on a sensitive point, then they will hit back. Try it, and you will see. Even if we are vicious on the inside, we need to appear virtuous and wholesome. There were other arguments. Some people told the knight that, above all else, women wished to seem discreet and trustworthy; they wanted to have a reputation for strength of mind, and for preserving secrets. That is rubbish, naturally. Women can never keep a secret. Have you heard the story of Midas? According to Ovid and other learned writers, Midas had two great ass’s ears concealed beneath his long hair. He was terrified lest anyone should find out about his deformity. That would be the end. So no one knew anything about it, except his wife. He loved her, and he trusted her. So he told her to keep quiet about this - this unfortunate development. Could she do that? Could she hell! Of course she swore to him that she would lose everything in the world rather than reveal his secret. It would be evil, she said, to besmirch the honour of her dear husband. It would shame her, too, beyond reckoning. Yet she almost died with the effort of suppressing the truth; she was sure that she would burst, that the words would make their way out somehow.

• From Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life (1994)

  You may begin showing signs of schizophrenia—like you’ll stare at the word schizophrenia so long that it will start to look wrong and you won’t be able to find it in the dictionary and you’ll start to think you made it up, and then you’ll notice a tiny mouth sore, one of those tiny canker sores that your tongue can’t keep away from, that feels like a wound the size of a marble, but when you go to study it in the mirror, you see that it is a white spot roughly as big as a pinhead. Still, the next thing you know—because you are spending too much time alone —you are convinced that you have mouth cancer, just like good old Sigmund, and you know instantly that doctors will have to cut away half of your jaw, trying to save your miserable obsessive-compulsive head from being cannibalized by the cancer, and you’ll have to go around wearing a hood over your entire face, and no one will ever want to kiss you again, not that they ever really did. I don’t think there is anything wrong with this way of thinking, only that it is ultimately not all that productive. So you might as well try to get something done. And it’s better if contact with another human being is involved. One thing I know for sure about raising children is that every single day a kid needs discipline—so it’s useful to give yourself a minimum quota of three hundred words a day. But also every single day a kid needs a break. So think of calling around as giving yourself a break. The truth is that there are simply going to be times when you can’t go forward in your work until you find out something about the place you grew up, when it was still a railroad town, or what the early stages of shingles are like, or what your character would actually experience the first week of beauty school. So figure out who would have this information and give that person a call. It’s best if you can think of someone who’s witty and articulate, so you can steal all of his or her material. Also, of course, it’s just more interesting to be on the phone with someone who’s sort of keen. But these qualities are not absolutely necessary, because you may just be looking for one piece of information, or even just one word, and you do not need a whole lot of background or humor to go with it. And it may also turn out that in searching for this one bit of information, something else will turn up that you absolutely could not have known would be out there waiting for you. For instance, when I was writing my second novel, I got to the part where the man comes over for his first date with the woman and brings with him a bottle of champagne. He removes the foil.

• From Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life (1994)

  I don’t like to be touched. Anyone here ever tries to touch me, I’ll kill them,” at which point Warren Oates jumps in and says, “Hey—lighten up, Francis.” This is not a bad line to have taped to the wall of your office. Say to yourself in the kindest possible way, Look, honey, all we’re going to do for now is to write a description of the river at sunrise, or the young child swimming in the pool at the club, or the first time the man sees the woman he will marry. That is all we are going to do for now. We are just going to take this bird by bird. But we are going to finish this one short assignment. Shitty First DraftsNow, practically even better news than that of short assignments is the idea of shitty first drafts. All good writers write them. This is how they end up with good second drafts and terrific third drafts. People tend to look at successful writers, writers who are getting their books published and maybe even doing well financially, and think that they sit down at their desks every morning feeling like a million dollars, feeling great about who they are and how much talent they have and what a great story they have to tell; that they take in a few deep breaths, push back their sleeves, roll their necks a few times to get all the cricks out, and dive in, typing fully formed passages as fast as a court reporter. But this is just the fantasy of the uninitiated. I know some very great writers, writers you love who write beautifully and have made a great deal of money, and not one of them sits down routinely feeling wildly enthusiastic and confident. Not one of them writes elegant first drafts. All right, one of them does, but we do not like her very much. We do not think that she has a rich inner life or that God likes her or can even stand her. (Although when I mentioned this to my priest friend Tom, he said you can safely assume you’ve created God in your own image when it turns out that God hates all the same people you do.) Very few writers really know what they are doing until they’ve done it. Nor do they go about their business feeling dewy and thrilled. They do not type a few stiff warm-up sentences and then find themselves bounding along like huskies across the snow. One writer I know tells me that he sits down every morning and says to himself nicely, “It’s not like you don’t have a choice, because you do—you can either type or kill yourself.” We all often feel like we are pulling teeth, even those writers whose prose ends up being the most natural and fluid.