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 Every Woman's Battle: Discovering God's Plan for Sexual and Emotional Fulfillment (2003)

  • Married eight years, Barb isn’t sure she and Jim are going to make it. They argue frequently and Barb is bitterly disappointed over Jim’s callous style of relating to her. “When I get really upset with him, I always know I can cry on Charlie’s shoulder.” (Charlie is Barb’s old boyfriend who always wanted to marry her.) “I have kept all of Charlie’s love letters and our old pictures together. I’m afraid to get rid of them. After all, he might someday be ‘the one’ if Jim and I don’t work out.” • Since her husband died two years ago, Beatrice worries about her financial situation. “I don’t feel that I am ready to invest in a new relationship and am not even sure I ever want to remarry,” Beatrice says. However, she thinks she may have to begin dating again because she may eventually need a husband to provide for her. I used be overwhelmed at the thought of long-term, lasting fidelity. I often thought, Oh, there’s no way I can be faithful to one man for an entire lifetime! When a mentor asked me, “Can you be faithful for one day?” I scoffed at the ridiculousness of the request. “Of course I can. One day is no big deal! It’s the rest of my life that I’m worried about.” “Life consists of one twenty-four-hour period after another. If you can be faithful for one day, you’ve got it made,” my mentor responded. “You just do the same thing the next day and the next day.” The simplicity of her response floored me. Taking one day at a time and trusting our future to God is all it takes. That’s why Jesus taught us to pray, “Give us today our daily bread.” That is why God rained down bread from heaven each day when the Israelites were wandering in the desert without food—so that His people would learn daily dependence on Him. When we change our focus from the distant future to the immediate present, we gain the strength and courage to overcome the fear of what we may encounter down the road. Don’t focus on whether you can be faithful to one man for a lifetime—just focus on being faithful to him (or to God if you are single) just for today. Then do the same thing tomorrow, and the next day, and the next. WAVING THE WHITE FLAG

• From How to Deal with Angry People (2023)

  Their initial anger has given way to now feeling hurt by something you did or said. It might not even be that you did or said anything specific, but simply the fact that you disagreed (or their interpretation of what that disagreement means) has led to some emotional pain for them. Contacting you would exacerbate that hurt so they are avoiding it. Discomfort with Conflict Conflict is difficult and it makes some people very uncomfortable and even anxious. When people shut down like this or avoid contact with you, it might simply be because they are trying to avoid dealing with something that’s very hard for them. Avoidance is a natural and common reaction to fear and anxiety so the distress they feel over the conflict encourages them to avoid the relationship. Passive-Aggressive Manipulation Shutting down like this might be motivated by a passive-aggressive attempt to hurt the person they are in conflict with. They know that cutting off contact with the person will hurt them and that is their intent. It might even be a way of gaining an upper-hand in the relationship, by sending the message that they don’t need the relationship. They want the person to apologize and even beg for forgiveness. A Genuine Desire to End the Relationship It’s quite possible that cutting off contact reflects a genuine desire to end the relationship. This could be motivated by a whole host of feelings, including the sadness, hurt, embarrassment, or discomfort with conflict mentioned here. Regardless, they might simply be done with the friendship and want to move on. This might not be the most mature way to handle things, but it happens often.* Attempting to Reconnect So what do you do in a situation like this? How can you deal effectively with a person who is (likely) angry with you and has cut off all contact? Make Sure You Know the Reason Why They Cut Off Contact It’s important to understand these different explanations because they likely require different solutions. A person who has cut off contact because they are embarrassed by something they did or said might require a different response from you than a person who is quite angry with you but is avoiding conflict. Both might require gentleness from you, but the later might also need to be given some permission and coaxing to say what they want to say. Frankly, knowing the source might actually lead you to not want to do anything at all about it. If you realize, for instance, that the person is being manipulative or passive-aggressive, you may decide that this is not a relationship you want to invest energy in.

• From Paul and Palestinian Judaism (40th Anniversary Edition) (2017)

  161 He cites the passages in IQS which appeal to the grace of God for the estab- lishment of man's way. But is reliance on God's grace thoroughly carried out and understood radically in the sect? No; for if it were, the strict require- ments to obey would not be understandable. 162 Side by side with the gracious God stands the man who anxiously strives to achieve total obedi- ence.163 It should be clear from our discussion above that setting grace and works over against each other as alternative paths to salvation is a wrong perception of the theology of the sect. It seems to owe more to Paul and Luther than to an analysis of Jewish texts, and it fails to perceive the intimate and necessary connection between God's grace in putting one in the coven- ant and the requirement to obey once in the covenant. We may pause briefly to consider the relationship of the sectarian view to that of the Rabbis. In Rabbinic literature, there is more emphasis than in the Scrolls on the even-handed distribution of punishment and reward in accordance with deeds and less emphasis on God's grace as a requirement for human righteousness. There is, however, no fundamental difference. The distribution of reward and punishment does not, in Rabbinic literature, become the basis of salvation; rather, the covenant is the main factor in 160 Braun, Radika/ismus, p. 29. Cf. n. 142 above. t6t Ibid., p. 44· 162 Ibid., pp. 46f. 163 Ibid., p. 47. 5] Fulfilment and transgression 297 salvation, while a man is punished or rewarded for his deeds within the covenant. Similarly in Qumran, one is punished for transgressions of the ordinances of the covenant and rewarded for adherence, but saved by being in the covenant itself. 164 God's grace in putting one in the covenant is emphasized more in Qumran than in Rabbinic literature. The emphasis on grace seems to have two explanations. One is that so much hymnic material has survived. If we had the Scrolls without the Hodayot and IQS IO-I I, the overall impression made by the Scrolls would be much more like that made by Rabbinic literature than is now the case. More important, the Qumran covenanters doubtless did have a heightened sense of God's grace, which is to be explained by their view that they were especially elect from among Israel. The special election requires a special emphasis on the grace of God.

• From Another Country (1962)

  Then the plane came slowly to a halt. As the plane halted, the people in the cabin seemed, collectively, to sigh, and discovered that the power of movement had been returned to them. Off came safety belts, down came packages, papers, and coats. The faces they had worn when hanging, at the mercy of mysteries they could not begin to fathom, in the middle of the air, were now discarded for the faces which they wore on earth. The housewife, traveling alone, who had been, during their passage, a rather flirtatious girl, became a housewife once again: her face responded to her proddings as abjectly as her hat. The businessman who had spoken to Yves about the waters of Lake Michigan, and the days when he had hiked and fished there, relentlessly put all of this behind him, and solemnly and cruelly tightened the knot in his tie. Yves was not wearing a tie, he was wearing a light blue shirt, with short sleeves, and he carried a light sport jacket; and he thought now, with some terror, that this had probably been a mistake; he was not really in America yet, after all, and might not be allowed to enter. But there was nothing he could do about it now. He straightened his collar and put on his jacket and ran his fingers through his hair—which was probably too long. He cursed himself and wished that he could ask one of his fellow passengers for reassurance. But his seatmate, a young man who played the organ in Montana, was now frowning and breathing hard and straightening as much of himself as could decently be reached. He had been very friendly during the journey and had even asked Yves to come and see him, if he ever came to Montana; but now Yves realized that he had not been given any address, and that he knew only the man’s first name, which was Peter. And it was only too clear that he could not ask for any information now. Nearly everyone on the plane knew—for he had been very high-spirited and talkative—that he was French, and coming to the States for the first time; and some of them knew that he had a friend in New York, who was an actor. This had all seemed perfectly all right while they were in the middle of the air. But now, on the ground, and in the light, hard and American, of sober second thought, it all seemed rather suspect. He felt helplessly French: and he had never felt French before. And he felt their movement away from him, decently but definitely, with nervous, and, as it were, backward smiles; they were making it clear that he could make no appeal to them, for they did not know who he was. It flashed through him that of course he had a test to pass; he had not yet entered the country; perhaps he would not pass the test. He watched them fill the aisles, and he moved backward from them, into his familiar loneliness and contempt. “Good luck,” said his seatmate quickly, and took his place in the line; he would probably have said the same words, as quickly, and in the same tone of voice, to a friend about to be carried off to prison. Yves sighed, and remained in his seat, waiting for the load in the aisle to lighten. He thought, bleakly, Le plus dur reste à faire.

• From Another Country (1962)

  She handed him his drink. “How are you?” “All right. Where’re the kids?” He put his drink down carefully on the low table near him. “They’re at the movies.” She considered him a moment. “You may be all right but I’ve seen you look better.” “Well”—again that bleak smile—“I haven’t really sobered up yet. I got real drunk last night with Jane. She can’t screw if she’s sober.” He picked up his drink and took a swallow of it, dragged a bent cigarette from one of his pockets and lit it. He looked so sad and beaten for a moment, hunched over the flame of the cigarette, that she did not speak. “Where’s Richard?” “He’ll be out. He’s in his study.” He sipped his drink, obviously trying to think of something to say, and not succeeding. “Vivaldo?” “Yeah?” “Did Rufus stay at your place last night?” “Rufus?” He looked frightened. “No. Why?” “His sister called up to find out where he was.” They stared at each other and his face made her frightened all over again. “Where did he go?” she asked. “I don’t know. I figured he’d gone to Harlem. He just disappeared.” “Vivaldo, she’s coming here this afternoon.” “Who is?” “His sister, Ida. I told her that I left him with you and that you would be here this afternoon.” “But I don’t know where he is. I was in the back, talking to Jane—and he said he was going to the head or something—and he never came back.” He stared at her, then at the window. “I wonder where he went.” “Maybe,” she said, “he met a friend.” He did not trouble to respond to this. “He should have known I wasn’t just going to dump him. He could have stayed at my place, I ended up at Jane’s place, anyway.” Cass watched him as he banged his cigarette out in the ashtray. “I have never,” she said, mildly, “understood what Jane wanted from you. Or, for that matter, what you wanted from her.” He examined his fingernails, they were jagged and in mourning. “I don’t know. I just wanted a girl, I guess, someone to share those long winter evenings.” “But she’s so much older than you are.” She picked up his empty glass. “She’s older than I am.” “That hasn’t got anything to do with it,” he said, sullenly. “Anyway, I wanted a girl who—sort of knows the score.” She considered him. “Yes,” she said, with a sigh, “that girl certainly knows how to keep score.” “I needed a woman,” Vivaldo said, “she needed a man. What’s wrong with that?” “Nothing,” she said. “If that’s really what both of you needed.” “What do you think I was doing?” “Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “I really don’t know. Only, I’ve told you, you always seem to get involved with impossible women—whores, nymphomaniacs, drunks—and I think you do it in order to protect yourself—from anything serious. Permanent.”

• From Another Country (1962)

  Rufus stuck out his tongue at Vivaldo, who was watching him with a faintly quizzical frown. Leona returned and set a fresh beer before Vivaldo and said, “You boys finish up now, I’m going to get dressed.” She gathered her clothes together and vanished into the bathroom. There was silence at the table for a moment. “She going to stay here with you?” Vivaldo asked. “I don’t know yet. Nothing’s been decided yet. But I think she wants to—” “Oh, that’s obvious. But isn’t this place a little small for two?” “Maybe we’ll find a bigger place. Anyway—you know—I’m not home a hell of a lot.” Vivaldo seemed to consider this. Then, “I hope you know what you’re doing, baby. I know it’s none of my business, but——” Rufus looked at him. “Don’t you like her?” “Sure, I like her. She’s a sweet girl.” He took a swallow of his beer. “The question is—how much do you like her?” “Can’t you tell?” And Rufus grinned. “Well, no, frankly—I can’t. I mean, sure you like her. But—oh, I don’t know.” There was silence again. Vivaldo dropped his eyes. “There’s nothing to worry about,” said Rufus. “I’m a big boy, you know.” Vivaldo raised his eyes and said, “It’s a pretty big world, too, baby. I hope you’ve thought of that.” “I’ve thought of that.” “Trouble is, I feel too paternal towards you, you son of a bitch.” “That’s the trouble with all you white bastards.” They encountered the big world when they went out into the Sunday streets. It stared unsympathetically out at them from the eyes of the passing people; and Rufus realized that he had not thought at all about this world and its power to hate and destroy. He had not thought at all about his future with Leona, for the reason that he had never considered that they had one. Yet, here she was, clearly intending to stay if he would have her. But the price was high: trouble with the landlord, with the neighbors, with all the adolescents in the Village and all those who descended during the week ends. And his family would have a fit. It didn’t matter so very much about his father and mother—their fit, having lasted a lifetime, was now not much more than reflex action. But he knew that Ida would instantly hate Leona. She had always expected a great deal from Rufus, and she was very race-conscious. She would say, You’d never even have looked at that girl, Rufus, if she’d been black. But you’ll pick up any white trash just because she’s white. What’s the matter—you ashamed of being black? Then, for the first time in his life, he wondered about that—or, rather, the question bumped against his mind for an instant and then speedily, apologetically, withdrew. He looked sideways at Leona. Now she was quite pretty.

• From Another Country (1962)

  “It’s kind of an interesting play,” Ellis said, cautiously, “and, from what I’ve heard of you, it ought to do very good things for you.” He turned back to Ida and Vivaldo. “Could I persuade you to have one drink with me in some secluded, air-conditioned bar? I really don’t think,” he said to Ida, “that you ought to make a habit of working in such infernos. You’ll end up dying of tuberculosis, like Spanish bullfighters, who are always either too hot or too cold.” “Oh, I guess we have time for one drink,” said Ida, looking doubtfully at Vivaldo, “what do you think, sweetie?” “It’s your night,” said Vivaldo. They started toward the door. “I’d like to mix maybe just a little bit of business in with this drink,” said Ellis. “I figured that,” said Vivaldo. “What an eager beaver you are.” “The secret,” said Ellis, “of my not inconsiderable success.” He turned to Ida. “I thought you told me yesterday that Dick Silenski and his wife would be here—?” Something happened, then, in her face and in his—in his, wry panic and regret, quickly covered; in hers, an outraged warning, quickly dissembled. They entered the wide, hot street. “Eric saw them,” she said, calmly, “something happened, they couldn’t come.” “The kids got into a fight in the park,” said Eric. “Some colored kids beat them up.” He heard Ida’s breathing change; he told himself he was a bastard. “I left them waiting for the doctor.” “You didn’t tell me that,” cried Vivaldo, “Jesus! I’d better call them up!” “That isn’t what you told me, either,” said Ida. “They weren’t very badly hurt,” said Eric, “just bloody noses. But they thought they’d better have a doctor look at them and of course they didn’t want to leave them alone.” “I’ll call them,” said Vivaldo, “as soon as we get to a bar.” “Yes, sweetie,” said Ida, “you’d better do that. What a terrible thing to have happen.” Vivaldo said nothing; kicked at a beer can on the sidewalk. They were walking west through a dark wilderness of tenements, of dirty children, of staring adolescents, and sweating grownups. “When you say colored boys,” Ida pursued, after a moment, “do you mean that was the reason for the fight?” “There didn’t,” said Eric, “seem to be any other reason. They’d never seen the boys before.” “I imagine,” said Ida, “that it was in some kind of retaliation—for something some other boys had done to them.” “I guess that must be it,” said Eric.

• From Another Country (1962)

  Eric stood up, looking out over the sea, almost poised to run. Yves liked to hold his breath under water for as long as possible, a test of endurance which Eric found pointless and, in Yves’ case, frightening. Then Yves’ head appeared again, and his arm flashed. And, even from this distance, Eric could see that Yves was laughing —he had known that Eric would be watching from the garden. Yves began swimming toward the beach. Eric sat down. The kitten rushed over and rubbed itself against his legs. It was the end of May. They had been in this house for more than two months. Tomorrow they were leaving. Not for a long time, perhaps never again, would Eric sit in a garden watching Yves in the water. They would take the train for Paris in the morning and, after two days there, Yves would put Eric on the boat for New York. Eric was to get settled there and then Yves was to join him. Now that it had all been decided and there could be no turning back, Eric felt a sour and savage apprehension. He watched as Yves stepped out of the water. His brown hair was bleaching from the sun and glowed about his head; his long, wiry body was as brown as bread. He bent down to lift off the scarlet bikini. Then he pulled on an old pair of blue jeans which he had expropriated from Eric. They were somewhat too short for him, but no matter—Yves was not very fond of Americans, but he liked their clothes. He stalked up the slope, toward the house, the red cloth of the bikini dangling from one hand. Yves had never mentioned going to America and had never given Eric any reason to suppose that he nourished such a desire. The desire arrived, or was, in any case, stated, only when the possibility arose: for Eric had slowly graduated from near-starvation to dubbing French films to bit roles in some of the American films produced abroad. One of these bits had led to television work in England; and then a New York director had offered him one of the principal supporting parts in a Broadway play. This offer had presented Eric with the enormous question he had spent three years avoiding. To accept it was to bring his European sojourn to an end; not to accept it was to transform his sojourn into exile. He and Yves had been together for more than two years and, from the time of their meeting, his home had been with Yves. More precisely and literally, it was Yves who had come to live with him, but each was, for the other, the dwelling place that each had despaired of finding. Eric did not want to be separated from Yves.

• From Becoming Myself: A Psychiatrist's Memoir (2017)

  Though I was satisfied with the way I had handled this incident, I know I have more personal work to do in that area, and I would have been far more uncomfortable had I not liked Brenda so much, and known how hard it was for her to criticize me. I had no doubt, also, that I would have felt far more threatened had my patient been an angry male. I’ve always been uneasy in confrontation, personally and professionally, and have carefully avoided any administrative position that might require it—for example, a chairmanship, committee head, or deanship. Only once, a few years after I had finished my residency, did I agree to be interviewed for a chairmanship—at my alma mater, Johns Hopkins. Fortunately—for me and for them—they selected another candidate for the position. I’ve always told myself that avoiding administrative positions was a wise move because my real strength lay in clinical research, practice, and writing, but I have to admit now that my fear of conflicts, and my general shyness, played a significant role in it. My wife, knowing I prefer only small social events of four or, at the most, six people, finds it hilarious that I became an expert in group therapy. But, in fact, my experience in leading therapy groups turned out to be therapeutic, not only for my patients but for me as well: it greatly increased my comfort in group situations. And, for a long time, I have felt little anxiety in addressing large audiences. But then, such performances are always on my own terms: I want no part of a spontaneous confrontational public debate: I don’t think quickly in such situations. One of the advantages of old age is that audiences now treat me with great deference: it’s been years, decades, since a colleague or a questioner in the audience has verbally challenged me. I halt my bike ride for ten minutes to watch the Gunn High School tennis team practice, thinking back to my days on the Roosevelt High School tennis team. I played number six on the six-player team, but was a much better player than Nelson at the number-five slot. Whenever we played one another, however, he intimidated me with his aggressiveness and cursing, and, even more, by his halting play at crucial points and standing still in silent prayer for a few moments. The coach was unsympathetic and told me to “grow up and handle it.” I continue biking and think of the many attorneys and CEOs I’ve treated who thrive on conflict, and I marvel at their appetite for battle. I’ve never understood how they got to be that way, nor, of course, how I came to be so conflict-avoidant. I think of elementary school bullies who threatened to beat me up after school. I remember reading stories of kids whose fathers taught them how to box, and how I pined for such a father.

• From Another Country (1962)

  “Nobody’s seen him,” Ida cried, “for nearly six weeks! Until last night! I know my brother, he doesn’t do things like this. He always come by the house, no matter where he’d been, or what was happening, just so we wouldn’t worry. He used to bring money and things—but even when he was broke, he come anyway. Don’t tell me he’s just sleeping it off somewhere. Six weeks is a long time.” She subsided a little, subsided to a venomous murmur. “And you know what happened—between him and that damn crazy little cracker bitch he got hung up with.” “All right,” Richard said, helplessly, after a considerable silence, “have it your own way.” Cass said, “But there’s no need to go rushing off in the rain right away. Rufus knows Vivaldo is going to be here. He may come by. I was hoping you would all stay for supper.” She smiled at Ida. “Won’t you, please? I’m sure you’ll feel better. It may all be cleared up by this evening.” Ida and Vivaldo stared at each other, having, it seemed, become allies in the course of the afternoon. “Well?” asked Vivaldo. “I don’t know. I’m so tired and evil I don’t seem to be able to think straight.” Richard looked as though he thoroughly agreed with this; and he said, “Look. You’ve been to the police. You’ve told everyone you could. You’ve checked the hospitals, and”—he looked at her questioningly—“the morgue”—and she nodded, not dropping her eyes. “Well. I don’t see any point in rushing out in this damn Sunday-afternoon rain, when you hardly even know where you’re going. And we all saw him last night. So we know he’s around. So why not relax for a couple of hours? Hell, in a couple of hours you may find out you haven’t got to go anywhere, he’ll turn up.” “Really,” said Cass, “there’s a very good chance he’ll turn up here today.” Ida looked at Cass. Then Cass realized that something in Ida was enjoying this—the attention, the power she held for this moment. This made Cass angry, but then she thought: Good. It means that whatever’s coming, she’ll be able to get through it. Without quite knowing it, from the moment Ida stepped through the door, she was preparing herself for the worst. “Well,” said Ida, looking at Vivaldo, “I asked Mama to call me here—just in case.” “Well, then,” said Cass, “it seems to me it’s settled.” She looked at the clock. “The boys should be home in about another hour. I think what I’ll do is fix us all a fresh drink.” Ida grinned. “That’s a very friendly idea.” She was terribly attractive when she grinned. Her face, then, made one think of a mischievous street boy. And at the same time there glowed in her eyes a marvelously feminine mockery. Vivaldo kept watching her, a small smile playing around the corners of his mouth.

• From Another Country (1962)

  So they tried to keep their door open, but there were risks attached to this, particularly if Ida were home, lounging on the sofa in her brief blue playsuit or practicing arrangements with the help of the record player. The sound of Vivaldo’s typewriter, the sound of Ida’s voice, the sound of the record player, attracted the attention of people coming up and down the stairs and the glimpse the open door afforded of Ida inflamed the transient imagination. People used the open door as an incitement—to stop, to listen, to stare, to knock, pretending that a friend of theirs had once lived in this very apartment, and did they know whatever had become of good old Tom or Nancy or Joanna? Or inviting them to a party upstairs or down the street, or inviting themselves to a party at Vivaldo’s. Once, absolutely beside himself, Vivaldo had beaten from the landing to the streets a boy who stood in the hot shadow of the landing, his hands in his pockets and his eyes on Ida—or, rather, on the spot from which, with a furious cry and a curse, she had hastily removed herself. The boy had not taken his hands from his pockets, only kept up a small, ugly animal moaning; and fallen, when Vivaldo had pushed him through the street door, heavily, on one shoulder. The police came shortly afterward, their own combustible imaginations stiffening their ready civic pride. After that, they kept the doors not only closed but locked. Yet, the entire shapeless, unspeakable city seemed to be in the room with them, some summer nights. He worked, she worked, he paced the room, she paced. She wanted him to become a “great” writer, but, unless she was working, she was incapable of being left alone. If she was working, the sound of her voice, the sound of her music, menaced, and, most often, drowned out that other orchestra in his head. If she was not working, she poured him another beer, ruffling his hair; she observed that his cigarette had burned itself out in the ashtray and lit him a new one; or she read over his shoulder, which he could not bear—but it was easier to bear this than to hear himself accused of having no respect for her intelligence. On the evenings they were together in the house, he really could not work, for he could not move far enough away from her, he could not enter himself. But he tried not to resent this, for the evenings she was away were worse.

• From Real Life (2020)

  Sa raquette tremble un peu dans ses mains. Il consolide sa prise, remue les doigts. — C’est vrai. Ça fait un moment que ce n’est pas génial, pas parfait. Mais je ne savais pas qu’on était si mal en point. » Cole secoue la tête d’un air dégoûté et met une balle dans le bas du filet. « Tu sais », commence Wallace, même s’il n’a aucune idée d’où il va avec ces mots, conscient seulement que l’expression de Cole lui fait mal au ventre. « Je crois que c’est sans doute une bonne chose qu’il ait exprimé, euh, un désir ? Un besoin ? C’est sans doute bien qu’il en ait parlé. — Mais j’avais à peine dit non qu’il tourne le dos et s’inscrit sur une appli de rencontres ? À quoi ça sert de communiquer si on n’écoute pas ? — Oui, c’est vrai, tu as raison. Mais peut-être qu’il a fait ça parce qu’il a eu aussi l’impression de n’être pas entendu ? » Cole lève les yeux du filet et lui lance un regard froid. Sa bouche est un trait sévère. « Alors quoi, c’est ma faute ? — Non, Cole, j’ai pas dit ça. — Parce que ça serait dégueulasse de dire ça, Wallace. » Wallace tente de trouver une bulle intérieure de calme, un soupçon de paix. Il pousse un soupir. La sueur lui brûle le coin des yeux. « Cole, tout ce que je dis, c’est que Vincent aussi est un être humain. Et tu n’es pas le seul dans cette relation à avoir des sentiments. — Je ne suis pas prêt à prendre son parti ! — Je ne te demande pas de prendre son parti, ni de lui pardonner, ni rien de tel. Je dis seulement que peut-être que ça va encore, tous les deux. Peut-être que tout ce que ça montre, c’est que ça marche entre vous. » Wallace s’efforce de sourire malgré la tension dans sa mâchoire et sa nuque. S’il y parvient, alors peut-être que ce sera vrai qu’ils sont à l’abri, que les choses vont bien entre eux. S’il parvient à sourire, il arrivera peut-être à y croire, et Cole aussi. C’est tout ce qu’il veut, après tout. C’est tout ce qui compte ici, Wallace s’en rend compte. Les sentiments de Cole. « Je ne sais pas. » Ils vont se placer en fond de court et Cole décide d’attaquer par un service musclé qui atterrit sur la ligne de service. La balle rebondit bien haut, et Wallace réussit à la renvoyer avec une bonne profondeur et suffisamment d’effet. La balle trace une courbe agréable, un arc qui l’amène juste devant la ligne de service de Cole. C’est facile de faire des échanges de ce type, en mettant juste assez de force dans chaque coup pour passer le filet, mais pas suffisamment pour faire de vrais dégâts.

• From Another Country (1962)

  I got real drunk last night with Jane. She can’t screw if she’s sober.” He picked up his drink and took a swallow of it, dragged a bent cigarette from one of his pockets and lit it. He looked so sad and beaten for a moment, hunched over the flame of the cigarette, that she did not speak. “Where’s Richard?” “He’ll be out. He’s in his study.” He sipped his drink, obviously trying to think of something to say, and not succeeding. “Vivaldo?” “Yeah?” “Did Rufus stay at your place last night?” “Rufus?” He looked frightened. “No. Why?” “His sister called up to find out where he was.” They stared at each other and his face made her frightened all over again. “Where did he go?” she asked. “I don’t know. I figured he’d gone to Harlem. He just disappeared.” “Vivaldo, she’s coming here this afternoon.” “Who is?” “His sister, Ida. I told her that I left him with you and that you would be here this afternoon.” “But I don’t know where he is. I was in the back, talking to Jane—and he said he was going to the head or something—and he never came back.” He stared at her, then at the window. “I wonder where he went.” “Maybe,” she said, “he met a friend.” He did not trouble to respond to this. “He should have known I wasn’t just going to dump him. He could have stayed at my place, I ended up at Jane’s place, anyway.” Cass watched him as he banged his cigarette out in the ashtray. “I have never,” she said, mildly, “understood what Jane wanted from you. Or, for that matter, what you wanted from her.” He examined his fingernails, they were jagged and in mourning. “I don’t know. I just wanted a girl, I guess, someone to share those long winter evenings.” “But she’s so much older than you are.” She picked up his empty glass. “She’s older than I am.” “That hasn’t got anything to do with it,” he said, sullenly. “Anyway, I wanted a girl who—sort of knows the score.” She considered him. “Yes,” she said, with a sigh, “that girl certainly knows how to keep score.” “I needed a woman,” Vivaldo said, “she needed a man. What’s wrong with that?” “Nothing,” she said. “If that’s really what both of you needed.” “What do you think I was doing?” “Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “I really don’t know. Only, I’ve told you, you always seem to get involved with impossible women— whores, nymphomaniacs, drunks—and I think you do it in order to protect yourself—from anything serious. Permanent.” He sighed, smiled. “Hell, I just want to be friends.” She laughed. “Oh, Vivaldo.” “You and I are friends,” he said. “Well—yes. But I’ve always been the wife of a friend of yours.

• From Another Country (1962)

  We came on over here and started talking and finished up Eric’s whiskey. And he had quite a lot of whiskey—so, you see.” “Yes, I know you think it’s against the law to stop drinking as long as there’s anything left to drink. Listen. Has Cass called?” “Yes.” “Did you talk to her? ” “No. Eric did.” “Oh? What did Eric tell you?” “What do you mean, what did Eric tell me?” “I mean, what did Cass say? ” “She said she was in trouble. Richard’s found out about them.” “Isn’t that awful? What else did she say?” “Well—I think that that sort of cluttered up her mind. She doesn’t seem to have said anything else. Did you know anything about all this?” “ Yes . Richard was here. Has he been there?” “No.” “Oh, Vivaldo, it was awful. I felt so sorry for him. I thought that you might be at Eric’s, but I said you’d gone off to see your family in Brooklyn and I didn’t have the phone number or the address. It’s very sad, Vivaldo, he’s very bitter, he wants to hurt you. He feels that you betrayed him—” “Yes, well, I think it may be easier for him to feel that way. How long was he there?” “Not long. Only about ten minutes. But it seemed longer. He said some terrible things—” “I’m sure. Does he still want to see me?” “I don’t know.” There was a pause. “Are you coming home now?” “Yes, right away. Are you going to be there?” “I’ll be here. Come on. Oh. Where’s Eric?” “He’s gone—uptown—” “To meet Cass?” “Yes.” She sighed. “Lord, what a mess. Come on home, sweetie, if Richard’s going to shoot you you don’t want him to do it while you’re wandering around Eric’s house. That would really be too much.” He laughed. “You’re right. You seem to be in a good mood today.” “I’m really in a terrible mood. But I’m being brave about it, I’m pretending to be Greer Garson. ” He laughed again. “Does it help?” “Well, no, baby, but it makes everything pretty funny.” “All right. I’ll be along in a minute.” “Okay, sweetie. ’Bye.” “Good-bye.” He hung up with an exultant relief that no trouble seemed to be awaiting him at home with Ida. He felt that he had got away with something. He stepped into Eric’s shower, scrubbed and sang; but when he stepped out he realized that he was terribly hungry and weak. While he was dressing, Eric’s doorbell rang. He was sure that it was Richard, at last, and he hurriedly buckled his belt and pulled on his shoes before pressing the buzzer. He started, idiotically, to make up the bed, but realized that there would not be time, and, anyway, it could not possibly make any difference to Richard whether the bed was made or not. He waited, hearing the downstairs door open and close.

• From Every Woman's Battle: Discovering God's Plan for Sexual and Emotional Fulfillment (2003)

  Not long after that I sensed God calling me to speak on sexual purity to youth groups, teaching them all the things I wish I had learned when I was their age. But I argued, “Lord, you’ve got the wrong person! I’m not a trained speaker and my life is certainly no example for young people to follow!” However, through studying the life of Moses in Henry Blackaby’s Experiencing God workbook, God convinced me that He knew what He was doing and that I was being ridiculous to argue with Him as if He didn’t. My fervency for sexual purity grew until it became a fire in my bones that felt as if it would consume me if I didn’t open my mouth and spit out the words. But in hindsight, I see that I fell more in love with speaking than with the Lord. I was still worshiping another god. Pridefully, I assumed that this “dying” deal was a onetime shot, and I thought I had won that battle once and for all. I figured once you are dead, you are dead, right? You can’t get “deader”! But I soon discovered that dying to my worldly desires was a daily requirement. My living sacrifice had been crawling off the altar without my awareness. I continued indulging in “little” temptations here and there, especially in a particular relationship with a friend (I’ll call him John). Over the course of many years, John and I occasionally had lunch together and discussed ministry visions and dreams. Our conversations stimulated me mentally and spiritually, and we would often talk at length on the phone, usually while my husband was at work. I thought nothing of it because we weren’t hiding anything from anyone. Over the years we often bantered cute remarks back and forth, but at one point I told my husband that some of John’s comments seemed to border on flirtatiousness. Knowing John well himself, Greg dismissed my concern as an overreaction. However, John’s flirting became so obvious that I felt I had to confront him over lunch one day. In response to one of his wisecracks, I said, “It’s beginning to sound like you are not just playing around anymore and you are scaring me. I’m a little concerned about our friendship and wonder if we need to establish some firmer boundaries?” John confirmed my suspicion when he responded, “Why? Are you tempted too?” He went on to say that he had been in love with me for a long time and that he would give up his marriage and ministry if I would run away with him. Was I tempted? Certainly.

• From Real Life (2020)

  Je crois que je vais rester tranquille. » Un éclair de déception passe sur le visage de Miller, mais Wallace a atteint sa limite. Il ne peut pas se résoudre à passer davantage de temps dans le monde extérieur. Il a envie de couler, de s’enfouir, de se cacher. « C’est dommage, fait Yngve. Ce serait sympa. — Mais si, allez », fait Emma, lui tirant le bras. Il lui jette un regard qu’il espère suffisamment déconfit et pathétique. Il en a assez des gens, assez du monde. Il n’en peut plus. Il est plein à ras bord. Il ne peut encaisser tout ça une seconde de plus. Il ne peut pas continuer comme ça, avec eux. « Je ne peux pas. Je vais y aller, d’ailleurs. » Tout se passe exactement comme vendredi. Les jours se suivent et se répètent. Il embrasse Emma sur la joue. « J’y vais aussi », fait Miller. Wallace a envie de hurler. Il ne sait pas s’il peut supporter de revivre le week-end entier. Il ne sait pas comment il va supporter ce mouvement de repli du temps sur lui-même. Mais il ne hurle pas. Il ravale son cri. « Mais on va faire du bateau, hein ? », insiste Yngve, tentant d’arracher la promesse avant que Miller sorte de table. « On va faire du bateau. Mettons 15 heures. — OK. J’appellerai pour réserver. — Parfait. Merci, Yngve. — Pas de problème, voyons », fait Yngve. Wallace sort déjà de table, et Miller le rejoint à grandes foulées. Une fois dans la rue perpendiculaire, protégé du regard de leurs amis, Miller cherche sa main. Wallace le laisse faire. « Ça va ? demande Miller. — Oui, oui. Mais je suis crevé et j’ai envie de rentrer. Je préférerais être seul, si ça ne te dérange pas. — D’accord. Je suis désolé pour ce qu’a dit Vincent. — Je l’avais cherché. » Wallace baisse les yeux sur la rue devant eux. Miller presse sa main dans un geste fait pour le réconforter, suppose Wallace, le rassurer. Que cherche-t-il à lui prouver ? Que tente-t-il d’aplanir, de réparer ? « Mais non. Tu ne méritais pas ça. — Qui mérite jamais quoi que ce soit ? — Dis pas n’importe quoi. — Non. C’est pas grave. — Si. — Je ne peux pas avoir cette discussion encore une fois, Miller. » Wallace s’arrête brusquement. Il retire sa main. « Je ne peux pas. Je ne suis pas en colère. Je ne suis pas fâché. Mais je ne peux pas recommencer cette conversation. — Wallace. — Non, Miller.

• From Another Country (1962)

  Rufus walked to Vivaldo’s window. “So you been all up and down that street, too,” he said. “We’ve all been up the same streets. There aren’t a hell of a lot of streets. Only, we’ve been taught to lie so much, about so many things, that we hardly ever know where we are.” Rufus said nothing. He walked up and down. Vivaldo said, “Maybe you should stay here, Rufus, for a couple of days, until you decide what you want to do.” “I don’t want to bug you, Vivaldo.” Vivaldo picked up Rufus’ empty glass and paused in the archway which led into his kitchen. “You can lie here in the mornings and look at my ceiling. It’s full of cracks, it makes all kinds of pictures. Maybe it’ll tell you things it hasn’t told me. I’ll fix us another drink.” Again he felt that he was smothering. “Thanks, Vivaldo.” Vivaldo dragged his ice out and poured two drinks. He came back into the room. “Here. To all the things we don’t know.” They drank. “You had me worried,” said Vivaldo. “I’m glad you’re back.” “I’m glad to see you,” said Rufus. “Your sister left me a phone number to call in case I saw you. It’s the lady who lives next door to you. I guess maybe I should call her now.” “No,” said Rufus, after a moment, “it’s too late. I’ll go on up there in the morning.” And this thought, the thought of seeing his parents and his sister in the morning, checked and chilled him. He sat down again in the easy chair and leaned back with his hands over his eyes. “Rufus,” Leona had said—time and again—“ain’t nothing wrong in being colored.” Sometimes, when she said this, he simply looked at her coldly, from a great distance, as though he wondered what on earth she was trying to say. His look seemed to accuse her of ignorance and indifference. And, as she watched his face, her eyes became more despairing than ever but at the same time filled with some immense sexual secret which tormented her. He had put off going back to work until he began to be afraid to go to work. Sometimes, when she said that there was nothing wrong in being colored, he answered, “Not if you a hard-up white lady.”

• From Another Country (1962)

  They each hated their jobs—which did not help their relationship with one another—but Ida was the most popular waitress her boss had, which gave her a certain leeway, and Vivaldo could no longer accept those more demanding and more lucrative jobs which offered him a future he did not want. They were both, as it were, racing before a storm, struggling to “make it” before they were sucked into that quicksand, which they saw all around them, of an aimless, defeated, and defensive bohemia. And this meant that they could not hope to improve their physical situation, being scarcely able to maintain the apartment that they had. Vivaldo had often suggested that they move out of the Village, into the lower East Side, where cheap lofts were available, lofts which could be made extremely attractive. But Ida had vetoed this. Her most important reason was never stated, but Vivaldo eventually realized that she had a horror of that neighborhood because Rufus’ last attempt at domestic life, or at life itself, had been made down there. She told Vivaldo, “I wouldn’t feel safe, honey, coming home at night or coming home in the daytime. You don’t know those people the way I do, because they’ve never treated you the way they’ve treated me. Some of those cats, baby, if they catch you alone on a subway platform, or coming up the steps to your apartment, they don’t think nothing of opening up their pants and asking you to give them a blow job. That’s right . And, look, baby, I was down there, it was on Mott Street, with Rufus, a couple of years ago, to see some people for Sunday brunch. They were white. And we went out on the fire escape to look at a wedding procession down the street. So some of the people on the block saw us. Well, do you know that three white men came up to that apartment, one with a blackjack and one with a gun and one with a knife, and they threw us out of there. They said”—and she laughed—“that we were giving their street a bad name.” She watched his face for a moment. “It’s true,” she said, gently. Then, “Let’s just stay here, Vivaldo, until we can do better. It’s rough, but it’s not as rough as it might be.” So they tried to keep their door open, but there were risks attached to this, particularly if Ida were home, lounging on the sofa in her brief blue playsuit or practicing arrangements with the help of the record player.

• From Another Country (1962)

  “What are you going to do now? When does”—he gestured toward the letter, which was somewhere beneath his belly button—“Yves get here?” “In about two weeks. According to that letter. It may be a little longer. It may be sooner.” “Have you told Cass that?” “No. I’ll tell her tomorrow.” “How do you think she’ll take it?” “Well, she’s always known he was on his way. I don’t know how she’ll take—his actual arrival.” In the streets, they heard footsteps, walking fast, and someone whistling. Eric stared at the wall again, frowning heavily. Other voices were heard in the street. “I guess the bars are beginning to close,” said Eric. “Yes.” Vivaldo leaned up, looking toward the blinds which held back the jungle. “Eric. How’s one going to get through it all? How can you live if you can’t love? And how can you live if you do?” And he stared at Eric, who said nothing, whose face gleamed in the yellow light, as mysteriously impersonal and as fearfully moving as might have been a death mask of Eric as a boy. He realized that they were both beginning to be drunk. “I don’t see how I can live with Ida, and I don’t see how I can live without her. I get through every day on a prayer. Every morning, when I wake up, I’m surprised to find that she’s still beside me.” Eric was watching him, perfectly rigid and still, seeming scarcely to breathe, only his unmoving eyes were alive. “And yet”—he caught his breath—“sometimes I wish she weren’t there, sometimes I wish I’d never met her, sometimes I think I’d go anywhere to get this burden off me. She never lets me forget I’m white, she never lets me forget she’s colored. And I don’t care, I don’t care—did Rufus do that to you? Did he try to make you pay?” Eric dropped his eyes, and his lips tightened. “Ah. He didn’t try. I paid.” He raised his eyes to Vivaldo’s. “But I’m not sad about it any more. If it hadn’t been for Rufus, I would never have had to go away, I would never have been able to deal with Yves.” And then, rising and walking to the window, from which more and more voices rose, “Maybe that’s what love is for.” “Are you sleeping with anyone besides Cass?” Eric turned. “No.” “I’m sorry. I just thought you might be. I’m not sleeping with anyone except Ida.” “We can’t be everywhere at once,” said Eric. They listened to the footfalls and voices in the street: someone was singing, someone called, someone was cursing. Someone ran. Then silence, again. “You know,” said Eric, “it’s true that you can make kids without love. But if you do love the person you make the kids with, it must be something fantastic.” “Ida and I could have great kids,” said Vivaldo. “Do you think you will?”

• From Every Woman's Battle: Discovering God's Plan for Sexual and Emotional Fulfillment (2003)

  Imagine an actor preparing to perform in a play. She memorizes her lines, gets inside the character’s head, and tries to imagine how this person would feel and act. She rehearses being that person. She thinks intently about doing what that person would do and saying what that person would say exactly the way she would say it. The more she’s rehearsed being that character, the sharper and more “automatic” her performance. Something similar happens when we fantasize sexually or emotionally about inappropriate or sinful behavior. We are rehearsing when we think about the conversations we would have with a particular man if we were ever alone with him, when we entertain thoughts of an intimate rendezvous, or wish that a certain man would take special notice of us. When we rehearse these scenarios, we imagine what we’ll say and do in these encounters. Then when Satan lays the trap and leads that man your direction, guess what? We are more than likely going to play the part exactly the way we have rehearsed it. When we don’t guard our minds in our relationships with men, we weaken our resistance before any encounter takes place. But we do have some choice in the matter. We don’t have to be sitting ducks. We can train our minds to mind. TRAINING OUR MINDS TO MIND One of my favorite sayings is: “You can’t keep a bird from flying over your head, but you can keep him from building a nest in your hair!” Even though inappropriate thoughts inevitably pop up into every person’s mind, we do not have to entertain them. Such thoughts are not sin, but dwelling on such thoughts is essentially rehearsing for rebellion, and acting on such thoughts is sin. We can’t keep from being tempted, but we can avoid rehearsing, and we can certainly refuse to sin. No temptation becomes sin without our permission. So how do we keep the bird from building a nest in our hair? How do we avoid dwelling on random thoughts to the point that we are “rehearsing” rather than “rebuking” them? There are three primary ways, and I call them the Three Rs: • Resisting • Redirecting • Renewing RESISTING TEMPTATION AT THE GATE Allowing your mind to be filled with images of sexually immoral or inappropriate behavior is like filling your mind with garbage. Garbage eventually rots, putrefying the soul and infecting your life and the lives of those you are closest to. One of the primary ways to avoid inappropriate fantasies and sexual misconduct is to resist such images and thoughts by limiting their access to your minds. This will require close monitoring of your reading, viewing, and listening habits, but once you make a habit of censorship, it will become second nature.