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 433 of 501 · 20 per page

• From City of Night (1963)

  He looks at his watch, looks toward either side of the street I can almost smell the sweet cologne. Carefully dressed and talcumed, clothes freshly pressed, his grayish hair combed neatly.... Frantically trying to look good for me! Suddenly I turned back, away from him, down the hall and the stairs, out the 42nd Street entrance, through the park waiting somehow like a Trap—through the popcorn-crunching leaves, the shadows of the trees grotesque in the faint autumn moon like in a witchstory... the stars hugely unconcerned. And I take the subway back to 34th Street, to that giant spider building I had moved into.... And days later I saw him again, on Times Square, as he crossed the street cockily with a hoodylooking black-haired boy to get into a cab. He glanced at me, turned away quickly. His hat still slouched defiantly to one side. CITY OF NIGHT FROM THE THUNDERING UNDERGROUND—THE MAZE of the New York subways—the world pours into Times Square. Like lost souls emerging from the purgatory of the trains (dark rattling tunnels, smelly pornographic toilets, newsstands futilely splashing the subterranean graydepths with unreal magazine colors), the newyork faces push into the air: spilling into 42nd Street and Broadway—a scattered defeated army. And the world of that street bursts like a rocket into a shattered phosphorescent world. Giant signs—Bigger! Than! Life!—blink off and on. And a great hungry sign groping luridly at the darkness screams: F * A * S * C * I * N * A * T * I * O * N I had been in the islandcity several weeks now, and already I had had two jobs, briefly: each time thinking now I would put down Times Square. But like a possessive lover—or like a powerful drug—it lured me. FASCINATION! I stopped working.... And I returned, dazzled, to this street. The giant sign winked its welcome: FASCINATION! I surrendered to the world of Times Square, and like a hype who needs more and more junk to keep going, I haunted that world not only at night now but in the mornings, the afternoons.... That world of Times Square that I inhabited extends from 42nd Street to about 45th Street, from grimy Eighth Avenue to Bryant Park—where, nightly, shadows cling to the ledges: malehungry looks hidden by the darkness of the night; and occasionally, shadowy figures, first speaking briefly, disappear in pairs behind the statue with its back to the library and come out after a few frantic moments, from opposite directions: intimate nameless strangers joined for one gasping brief space of time. Periodically the newyork cop comes by meanly swinging his stick superiorly, sometimes flashing his light toward the bushes—and the shadows scatter from the ledges, the benches, the trees—walking away aimlessly. But that world exists not only along the streets; it extends into the movie theaters.

• From City of Night (1963)

  The motor: Stops! I saw the driver’s head sway toward the steering wheel; he seemed to pass out momentarily, recovers. I recognized Lance O’Hara. Then the motor started uncertainly, the car sped away, around the corner, into Sunset Boulevard, as I entered the Rendezvous Room. On weekends the Rendezvous Room begins to fill early: Those who hadnt found someone last night are still trying—their faces drained of all color from the night-long hunting. Others, still unsatisfied, still sexhungry, are beginning the endless pursuit early. Most have come from parties lasting into the morning, parties often still going on; and they comb the bars for new, possibly fresh recruits. The parting of the drapes at the door, announcing the entrance of someone possibly interesting, acts like a kind of electronic device pulling all alerted units in its direction. The heads swivel as the light darts frightened into the dark bar, scurries, rushes out again.... Inside, there are certain familiar faces. Jamey, Randy, and Chick are sitting together. I sit at the bar with them. The jukebox is playing: “Children, go where I send you—how shall I send you? Im gonna send you one by one—...” Then the curtains parted, and the lightning streak of the sun flashed into the bar. “It’s Lance!” “Whats the matter with him?” “Is he sick?” “Lance, baby!” “Come on over here, Lance....” “He looks Terrible!” “Hes drunk!” Voices fluttering through the smoky bar like lost birds. Randy, who had been tapping his fingers to the rhythm of the jukemusic, flattened his hand on the bar with an angry: bang!! —the fingers suddenly tense, motionless. Jamey slid off the stool quickly, walked to the tall slender figure now inside the bar and said: “Why, Lance-baby, I thought you were in New York—what happened to your show? I thought—” The slender figure moved past him, staring anxiously around the bar. “Whats the matter, Lance?” Chick whispers, following him as if to shelter him; aware of the chorus waiting. Lance O’Hara squints dazedly, reels toward Chick: “Chick—I—” And then, “Have you seen... Dean?” Voices, the music—the deafening sounds. Smoke like a gray shroud.... I walked out quickly. Across the street, the cops were frisking three youngmen. I started to walk back toward the Boulevard, and then I was aware of someone close behind me. I waited. I felt someone’s hand on my shoulder, and I turned to face Lance O’Hara. “Youre not him,” he sighed. The cops were looking in our direction now. Lance was leaning heavily on me, about to pass out. “Come on,” I said, leading him away. “No—wait. Will—you—drive?” he mumbled. “Please—come with me. Im parked—parked—somewhere!” He began to laugh at not being able to remember where his car was. I had seen him turn on Sunset earlier, and I led him around the corner. “There—” he said. “Thats my car.” He handed me the keys, got in stumbling; leaned back, covering his face: “Whew!

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  —Simplemente tienes todo resuelto y yo no —le digo—. Me preocupo por todo. ¿Superaré la escuela? ¿Seré quien quiero ser? ¿Tendré amigos y contribuiré con el mundo o simplemente terminaré haciendo un trabajo que odio como mi hermana, mi padre y todos los demás que conozco? —Lo miro de nuevo—. Todos menos tú, claro. Da la impresión que estás justo donde quieres estar contigo mismo, y no te arrepientes de nada. Me arrepiento de todo. Suelto una pequeña risa. —Bueno, no todo —me corrijo—. Sin embargo, me siento un poco estúpida. Acerca de las palabras que digo en cuanto salen de mi boca, cosas que hago, decisiones que tomo, siempre estoy dudando de mí. Como si tal vez fuera más feliz si me quedara en silencio y mantuviera mi maldita boca cerrada y mi cabeza baja. Su brazo se aprieta a mí alrededor. —¿Más feliz o más segura? ¿No son lo mismo? Pero no, sé lo que está diciendo. Un barco en el puerto es seguro, pero eso no es para lo que son los barcos. —Creo que tienes miedo, porque la gente ha trabajado duro para hacerte pensar que no mereces su atención, Jordan —dice—. Tus padres, ese ex tuyo de la escuela secundaria... incluso Cole. Les diste a las personas una oportunidad, y abusaron de ella. Esa es su culpa, no la tuya. —Inclina mi barbilla hacia arriba para que mis ojos se encuentren con los suyos—. No pienses que tiene algo que ver con quién eres. Y no dejes que nadie te haga temerte. Eres increíble. Mi sonrisa se asoma, y aunque pasan por mi cabeza mil dudas sobre a dónde nos dirigimos él y yo, estoy tomando una noche a la vez. Necesitaba escuchar eso. La única persona que me habla así es mi hermana. Pero Pike es mejor, porque también puedo besarlo. —Y me convertí en lo que soy, porque no tenía otra opción —señala—. Si las cosas hubieran sido diferentes, me hubiera gustado ir a la universidad. Viajar. Tal vez usar un traje para trabajar. —Su cuerpo se pone rígido—. Te envidio. Sigues creciendo, y aún puedes ser quién quieras. Tienes todas las opciones en el mundo delante de ti. No había pensado en eso. Qué diferente sería su vida si Cole nunca hubiera venido. —Te recuerdo en ese traje —reflexiono—. Deberías llevarme a una cita. Nunca me has visto con un vestido. Se queda en silencio, su pulgar frota arriba y abajo de mi brazo, y sé lo que no está diciendo. No puede llevarme a menos que vayamos a algún lugar fuera de la ciudad. Respiro hondo, empujando la preocupación hacia el fondo de mi mente. —Cuando te vi por primera vez, sentí que me habían golpeado —susurra—. Tienes un cuerpo que me hace sentir como si estuviera en una montaña rusa cuando lo toco. Sonrío y me quito las bragas antes de balancear una pierna sobre él, quedando a horcajadas y sentándome. Exhala, agarrando mis caderas.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  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. Cole debe estar teniendo una fiesta. Súper. Dejo mi bolso en el auto, tomo mis llaves, lo cierro con llave, y camino hacia la casa, queriendo estar en cualquier lugar menos aquí, pero sabiendo que tengo que hacer esto. Mi piel zumba con conciencia, y el vello en mis brazos se eriza cuando la música me inunda los oídos. Pero cargo los escalones del porche, todavía vestida con mi blusa sin espalda del trabajo. Me aprieto la coleta y espero que con toda la gente de aquí, Pike y Cole no se den cuenta que vengo y me voy. Entro a la casa y miro alrededor, viendo que la puerta trasera se cierra cuando alguien sale y luego escucho que la puerta del baño se cierra en el cuarto de lavado.

• From The Case for God (2009)

  Pietists who opted for the “religion of the heart” were not in revolt from reason; they were simply refusing to reduce faith to merely intellectual conviction. John Wesley (1703–91) was fascinated by the Enlightenment and tried to apply a scientific and systematic “method” to spirituality: his Methodists followed a strict regimen of prayer, scripture study, fasting, and good works. But he insisted that religion was not a doctrine in the head but a light in the heart. “We do not lay the main stress of our religion on any opinions, right or wrong,” he explained. “Orthodoxy or right opinion is at best but a very slender part of religion, if it can be allowed to be any part of it at all.”24 If the rational evidence for Christianity became “clogged and encumbered, this could be a blessing in disguise, as it would compel people “to look into themselves” and “attend to that same light.”25 Pietism shared many of the Enlightenment ideals: it mistrusted external authority, ranged itself with the moderns as against the ancients, shared the emphasis on liberty, and was excited by the possibility of progress.26 But it refused to relinquish the older patterns of religion in favor of a streamlined, rationalized piety. But without discipline, the “religion of the heart” could easily degenerate into sentimentality and even hysteria. We have seen that Eckhart, the author of the Cloud, and Denys the Carthusian had all been concerned about a religiosity that confused affective states with the divine presence. The Enlightenment tendency to polarize heart and head could mean that a faith that was not capable of intelligent self-appraisal degenerated into emotional indulgence. This became clear during the religious revival known as the First Great Awakening that erupted in the American colony of Connecticut in 1734. The sudden deaths of two young people in the community of Northampton plunged the town into a frenzied religiosity, which spread like a contagion to Massachusetts and Long Island. Within six months, three hundred people had experienced “ born-again” conversions, their spiritual lives alternating between soaring highs and devastating lows when they fell prey to intense guilt and depression. When the revival burned itself out, one man committed suicide, convinced that the loss of ecstatic joy must mean that he was predestined to hell. In premodern spirituality, rituals such as the Eleusinian mysteries had been skillfully crafted to lead people through emotional extremity to the other side. But in Northampton, the new American cult of liberty meant that there was no such supervision, that everything was spontaneous and free, and that people were allowed to run the gamut of their emotions in a way that for some proved fatal.

• From The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  MOM AND DAD SURVIVED the winter, but every time I saw them, they looked a little worse for wear: dirtier, more bruised, their hair more matted. “Don’t you fret a bit,” Dad said. “Have you ever known your old man to get himself in a situation he couldn’t handle?” I kept telling myself Dad was right, that they knew how to look after themselves and each other, but in the spring, Mom called me to say Dad had come down with tuberculosis. Dad almost never got sick. He was always getting banged up and then recovering almost immediately, as if nothing could truly hurt him. A part of me still believed all those childhood stories he’d told us about how invincible he was. Dad had asked that no one visit him, but Mom said she thought he’d be pretty pleased if I dropped by the hospital. I waited at the nurse’s station while an orderly went to tell him he had a visitor. I thought Dad might be under an oxygen tent or lying in a bed coughing up blood into a white handkerchief, but after a minute, he came hurrying down the hall. He was paler and more gaunt than usual, but despite all his years of hard living, he had aged very little. He still had all his hair, and it was still coal black, and his dark eyes twinkled above the paper surgical mask he was wearing. He wouldn’t let me hug him. “Whoa, Nelly, stay back,” he said. “You’re sure a sight for sore eyes, honey, but I don’t want you catching this sonofabitch of a bug.” Dad escorted me back to the TB ward and introduced me to all of his friends. “Believe it or not, ol’ Rex Walls did produce something worth bragging about, and here she is,” he told them. Then he started coughing. “Dad, are you going to be okay?” I asked. “Ain’t none of us getting out of this alive, honey,” Dad said. It was an expression he used a lot, and now he seemed to find a special satisfaction in it. Dad led me over to his cot. A neat pile of books was stacked next to it. He said his bout with TB had set him to pondering about mortality and the nature of the cosmos. He’d been stone-cold sober since entering the hospital, and reading a lot more about chaos theory, particularly about the work of Mitchell Feigenbaum, a

• From City of Night (1963)

  “Baby!” she gushes at me. “How good to see a familiar face—From Home! Oh, I just knew youd be in New Orleans. Why did you desert me!” Acknowledging Lola’s hazy salutation—and promising to see Pauline later—I fled back into the streets. In the reverberating currents of franticness, I tell myself insistently that Im still too sober. At midmorning the Parade of Rex, King of Mardi Gras, will begin. After that the streets will be ruled by even greater Madness. The true anarchy will reign under the contemptuous Sun. “I gotta know how big it is before buying,” a fairy said to me. Another one with him lisps: “Mary! He’ll think we’re size queens!” The other one shrieks: “We are! Any size!” From Jackson Square, the steeples of the Cathedral are luminous, uncovered of the night. The Cathedral seems to be expanding as if in preparation for siege.... Before it: completely in black, with black angelwings, a longhaired woman stands frozen: a statue who has left its holy sanctuary to mourn over the city. I avoid looking at Her, turn my attention to an empress gliding along the park, her train held by two candy-striped pages. Winking, disappearing, someone Ive been with or talked to hands me a pill. Beside me a man holds out a hurricane glass to me. I down the pill with the proffered liquor. Cannibals! Executioners! I feel cold but theres no breeze. It will be a warm day. The sun floats on the purplish horizon. Wrapped around a post near the Bourbon House, a drunk man is proclaiming: “This is my true love!” as he hugs the post passionately. An outraged woman pulls at him insistently. “Get away from me!” he commands her, “I found My True Love!”—as one leg curls about the post like a dog’s. Sorceresses! Wizards! Crowds whipped up, exacerbated by each fleeing moment. Alice in Wonderland!—billowing skirt raised obscenely. Tom Sawyer!—pants open at the rear. A cruddy-looking youngappearing boy-man, his eyes like black marbles, is talking to me: “I seen you the other day,” he said. “You was in a pink Cadillac with some fags. Man, I got contacts you never dreamed of! I connect for guys like you—but I gotta test you out first, myself!... I aint queer, myself, dig?—but nacherly I gotta know what youre like.” “Shag, man!” I said belligerently, strangely repelled by him. The shadows become deeper on the streets, the sky brightens. A hobo in rainbow patches.... Devils prowling the streets! “I own a chain of stores,” a shabby man is trying to impress me. I turned away from him. He tries to dazzle Sonny, nearby. “Shit, man, Im going to Paris,” I heard Sonny say to him, turning for affirmation to the two scores hes been with. “Right?” the two scores nodded solemnly, a nod that could have been a permanent farewell. Seminaked men and women!

• From City of Night (1963)

  There is still a doorman in the building where I lived: a Negro from Jamaica: a clinging relic, like the mirrored lobby, of its sadly gone elegance: Beyond the lobby and the doorman—who sits in a little room, nodding asleep through the night—the building is seedy two-room apartments and gray rooms—layers of wallpaper make the walls soft like quilts; the plumbing rattles; steam gives out on the coldest days.... We went up in the complaining elevator, into the apartment, broken up, in turn, into smaller apartments, tiny rooms. I turned on the light. “This is nice,” Pete said, looking at the dingy room. One thing was colorful: a Mexican blanket which my mother had sent me.... “I wish I had a place of my own,” Pete says. “You know, I actually been thinking of getting a small apartment—with someone, maybe—you know, split the rent—it wouldnt be much that way.... You like living alone, spote?” I pretended I hadnt heard him.... But long before that night when I had resolved to explore this world not with one person but with many, I had become aware that there was something about someone getting too close to me which suffocated me.... “Maybe,” Pete says, going on, “maybe—you know—I was just thinking—shacking up with another guy for a while—we could hustle together, really make the scores. It wouldnt be hard: I know lots of scores. Theyd stop digging me; dig you; so on—I mean, whoever it was, we would keep going like that.... I was even thinking—Christ—well—that fuckin street—it bugs me—sometimes I get nightmares about those toilets—I mean, all those fags—and—well, if I got a job, even—and split the rent with someone—well—” “It’s past midnight,” I said interrupting him. For a long while there seems to be nothing to say. Im aware of a smothering self-consciousness between us. I wanted him to leave. It was the first time anyone other than the curious men and women in the other rooms had been in this room with me. “Can I stay here tonight?” I heard him ask clearly. In a kind of panic, I want to say no. “Yes,” I answered. The lights are out now. The darkness seems very real, like a third person waiting. I lay on the very edge of one side of the bed, and he lay on the very edge of the other. A long time passed. Hours. “Are you asleep?” he asked me. “No—I cant sleep.” “Me neither,” he says. “Maybe I should go.” But he didnt move. More silence. And then I felt his hand, lightly, on mine. Neither of us moved. Moments passed like that. And now his hand closes over mine, tightly. And that was all that happened. The man in the other wing of the building, on the other side of my window, began to cough very early, and I got up hurriedly and dressed. “I have to go out,” I told Pete. “Me, too,” he said. “I have to see someone.”

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Me sonríe, inclina su cabeza juguetonamente, y todavía veo a esa chica arrastrándose por el suelo del cine cada vez que la miro. Me tenía incluso entonces. —Te amo —digo. Bajando, se cierne sobre mí, mirándome a los ojos mientras mi mano va a su pecho. —Oh, espera. —Se incorpora y se inclina para apagar la vela. —No, déjala encendida —gimo, rodando mis caderas contra ella—. Quiero verte. Baja la mirada hacia mí. —¿Bloqueaste la puerta? Hago una mueca. —Mierda. ¿Por qué olvidé eso? Solo he tenido hijos durante la mitad de mi vida. —No podemos dejar que echen un vistazo, ¿no es así? —regaña, pero me sonríe. Inclinándose de nuevo, cierra los ojos, hace una pausa momentánea, pensando, y luego los abre de nuevo, soplando la vela suavemente. La habitación se oscurece excepto por la luz de luna atravesando la lluvia brillando en la pared de nuestro dormitorio, y veo su contorno bajar de nuevo sobre mí. Aprieto sus caderas, sintiéndola frotarse contra mí. —¿Alguna vez vas a decirme lo que deseas? —pregunto. Me besa, susurrando contra mis labios: —Trae mala suerte decirlo. Se mueve a mi cuello, arqueo mi cabeza y cierro los ojos, dejándola entrar. —Pero lo diré —continúa, mordisqueando mi mandíbula—. Siempre deseo la misma cosa, y cada día se vuelve realidad. Penélope Douglas es una escritora y profesora de Las Vegas. Nacida en Dubuque, Iowa, es la mayor de cinco hermanos. Penélope asistió a la Universidad del Norte de Iowa, obteniendo una licenciatura en Administración Pública, porque su padre le dijo: “¡Obtén el maldito grado!” Luego obtuvo una maestría en Ciencias de la Educación de la Universidad de Loyola en Nueva Orleans, porque odiaba la administración pública. Una noche, se emborrachó y le dijo al guardia de seguridad del bar donde trabajaba (sí, estaba borracha en el trabajo) que su hijo era sexy, y tres años después se casó. Con el hijo, no el gorila. Han desovado, pero solo una vez. Una hija llamada Aydan. Penélope ama los dulces, el programa Sons of Anarchy, y va de compras a Target casi a diario. Document Outline 54647a3b1ebfee6c21bab56a646d0e88c4d090426fd93b6fc55b52785a800059.pdf 8f43ac04dd9f1bcaa00484355870d6e5693723eb65396a69187691d16f62045c.pdf 54647a3b1ebfee6c21bab56a646d0e88c4d090426fd93b6fc55b52785a800059.pdf

• From The Case for God (2009)

  In a time of frightening political turbulence, a universe that ran as regularly as clockwork seemed profoundly attractive. Descartes, a devout Catholic all his life, had experienced his “method” as a Godgiven revelation and in gratitude—extraordinary as this may seem— vowed to make a pilgrimage to the shrine of Our Lady of Loreto. Yet Descartes’ philosophy was profoundly irreligious: his God, a clear idea in his mind, was well on the way to becoming an idol, and his meditation on the thinking self did not result in kenosis but in the triumphant assertion of the ego. There was no awe in Descartes’ theology: indeed, he believed that it was the task of science to dispel wonder. In the future people should look, for example, at the clouds, “in such a way that we will no longer have occasion to wonder at anything that can be seen of them, or anything that descends from them.”23 When he dedicated his Meditations on First Philosophy to “The Most Illustrious Dean and Doctors of the Sacred Faculty of Theology in Paris,” Descartes made an astonishing claim: “I have always considered that the two questions respecting God and the soul were the chief of those that ought to be demonstrated by philosophical [i.e., “scientific”] rather than theological argument.”24 In the clear expectation that they would agree with him, Descartes calmly informed the most distinguished body of theologians in Europe that they were not competent to discuss God. Mathematics and physics would do the job more effectively.25 And the theologians were all too happy to agree. It was a fateful move. Henceforth, theology would increasingly be translated into a “philosophical” or “scientific” idiom that was alien to it. • • • Even those who could see flaws in Descartes’ Universal Mathematics were excited by the idea of a mechanical universe, ruled at all times and in all places by the same unequivocal laws.26 Increasingly, the mechanical universe would be seen as a model for society. Citizens should submit to a rational government in the same way as the different parts of the cosmos obeyed the rational laws of the scientific God. People were also intrigued by the idea of a single method that would lead infallibly to wisdom and certainty and make the existence of God as necessary and lucid as one of Euclid’s theorems. Doubt and perplexity would soon be things of the past.

• From The Case for God (2009)

  At the time of the Death of God movement in the 1960s, God’s days seemed numbered, but now God seems alive and well. Postmodern theology challenges the assumption that secularism is irreversible; some have suggested that we are now entering a “postsecular” age but have also made it clear that the religion being revitalized must be different from “modern” faith. The first to apply Derrida’s ideas to theology was Mark C. Taylor in Erring: A Postmodern A/theology (1984); the slash in the subtitle was designed to mark a Derridian hesitation before settling for either God or Godlessness. Taylor saw a link between deconstruction and the 1960s Death of God movement, but criticized Altizer for being stuck in the modern dialectic in which things were either dead or alive, absent or present. In his view, religion was present even when it seemed absent—so much so that he was criticized for allowing religion in his later work to be entirely swallowed up in other discourses. Those philosophers who focused on Derrida’s later work have been more successful. The Italian postmodernist Gianni Vattimo argues that from the very first religion had recognized that it was an essentially interpretive discourse: it had traditionally proceeded by endlessly deconstructing its sacred texts, so that from the start it had the potential to liberate itself from metaphysical orthodoxy. Vattimo is anxious to promote what is called “weak thought” to counter the aggressively triumphalist certainty that characterizes a good deal of modern religion and atheism. Metaphysics is dangerous because it makes absolute claims for either God or reason. “Not all metaphysics have been violent,” Vattimo admits, “but all violent people of great dimensions have been metaphysical.” 56 Hitler, for example, was not content to hate only the Jews in his vicinity but created a grand récit that made metaphysical claims about Jews in general. “When someone wants to tell me the absolute truth,” Vattimo remarks shrewdly, “it is because he wants to put me under his control.” 57 Both theism and atheism make such claims, but there are no absolute truths anymore—only interpretations. 58 Modernity, Vattimo believes, is over; when we contemplate history, we cannot now see the future as an inevitable and unilinear progression toward emancipation. Freedom no longer lies in the perfect knowledge of and conformity to the necessary structure of reality, but in an appreciation of multiple discourses and the historicity, contingency, and finitude of all religious, ethical, and political values— including our own. 59 Vattimo wants to bring down “walls,” including the walls that separate theists and atheists. Even though he believes that society will reembrace religion, he does not want to abandon secularization, because he regards the Church-state alliance set up by Constantine as a Christian aberration.

• From City of Night (1963)

  “He looks like a plainclothes dick to me,” said the first one—then turning to me: “Is ‘dick’ the right word, hon?—it sounds so strangely dated or something. Or would a plain-clothesman also be referred to as fuzz’?” “‘Dick’—like Dick Tracy,” I said with a straight face. He was right: The man did look like a plainclothes detective. Obviously, others had noticed him. The fairy next to me is saying: “Thats all he could be—a plainclothes dick!” But the other one was already dismissing him: “Why dont you take your pants off, hon,” hes saying to me, “so we can see what you look like all over—before buying?” And so hes decided this is the only way. “Im not wearing trunks,” I said. “Thats exactly what I mean,” he said, throwing up his hands in glee. “Lets see what you really look like!” That did it. I mumbled something about having to leave, and I walked away. They said something, but I didnt hear what it was—undoubtedly something Bitchy. But had I left really because I was annoyed at what he had said?—or was it that I had wanted all along to do what I was now doing?... I sat on the concrete ledge—near the man in sportclothes. Glancing up purposely suddenly, I see him looking at me. I wiped the sand off my pants, I light a cigarette—stretching the time that I could stay there without being obvious. This time I look at him directly for a response. He smiles at me. For no apparent reason suspecting strongly that the fairy just now had been right—that this man was indeed a detective—I put my shirt on, got up, started to move away without looking back. But soon Im aware that hes taken a few steps toward me. I faced him. He opened his mouth to say something, and then, in real or pretended embarrassment, he merely smiled again. Reacting to him as if he is a cop, I look at him coolly. “Im leaving the beach,” he blurted. “Can I give you a ride somewhere?” Now, Im not at all sure hes a cop—not because of what he said (Southern California is notorious for entrapment—theyll even offer you money and bust you later)—but because of the diffident tone of his voice; he appeared embarrassed the moment he had spoken. It is usually relatively easy, once youve made the scene in the bars and the beaches, to peg someone quickly at those places. But not this man. I keep shifting my suspicions. “Which way are you going?” I asked him. He shrugged. “Oh, anywhere. I havent got anything to do. I’ll drive you wherever youre going.” I want very much—because of a strong curiosity—to find out about this man. On the other hand, if I leave the beach now—and he merely drives me back downtown—I will have left for nothing, and it’s still early: the golden-tanning sun still holds the sky.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Pero creo que sé lo que iba a decir. Cuando me enteré que iba a ser padre. Pike Lawson no se ve lo suficiente mayor para ser padre de un hijo adulto, así que tuvo que haber sido muy joven cuando Cole nació. No más de dieciocho o diecinueve años. ¿Lo que lo pondría en unos treinta y ocho? ¿Más o menos? —Simplemente no podía comprender el hecho de que estaba renunciando a siete años de mi vida —continúa—. Pero siete años fueron y vinieron muy rápido. Asegurar un buen futuro requiere de una inversión y un compromiso, Cole, pero vale la pena. —¿Lo valió para ti? —cuestiona su hijo, arrancando un trozo de la hamburguesa, presionando ligeramente el costado de mi muslo. Es un gesto sutil que de hecho me gusta, a pesar de la tensión creciente en la habitación. Es su forma de hacerme saber que puede estar enojado, pero no lo está conmigo, y odia que probablemente me sienta incómoda en este momento. El padre de Cole toma un sorbo de su botella y la deja calmadamente en la mesa, su tono ahora es más duro. —Bueno, he tenido el dinero para pagar tu fianza de la cárcel —indica—. La última vez. Y la vez antes de esa. La mano de Cole se tensa alrededor de mi muslo, y mi cuello está tan caliente de repente que desearía tener una liga para mi cabello. Miles de preguntas dan vueltas en mi cabeza. ¿Por qué no se llevan bien? ¿Qué sucedió? El padre de Cole parece bueno, por lo poco que sé de él, pero Cole ha levantado un muro entre ellos, y su papá tiene casi tan mal genio como su hijo. Con la hamburguesa en mano, Cole aparta su plato y echa la silla hacia atrás, soltando mi pierna. —Voy a comer afuera —dice, soltando mi pierna—. Ven con nosotros si quieres, nena. Y deja los platos. Los lavaré en un rato. Abro la boca para hablar, pero me detengo, apretando los dientes. Bueno, esto será divertido. Cole se da vuelta y sale de la habitación, y momentos después escucho la puerta principal cerrarse de un golpe. Se escuchan voces amortiguadas desde afuera, y suena un claxon por la calle, pero de repente hace tanto silencio en la cocina que dejo de respirar. Con suerte Pike Lawson se olvidará que estoy aquí. ¿Cómo se supone que viva aquí? No puedo tomar un lado si van a hacer esto. Pero Pike habla, suavizando su voz. —Está bien —asegura, y lo veo mover su cabeza hacia mí por el rabillo del ojo—. Puedes ir con él si quieres. Giro mi cabeza, me encuentro con su mirada y le enseño una sonrisa tensa mientras me encojo de hombros. —Hace calor afuera —contesto. Ya estoy ardiendo con la tensión de aquí. Además, los amigos de Cole no son mis amigos, y afuera no será mejor.

• From The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  making it even more precarious. The hole in the kitchen ceiling widened, and then the ceiling on Brian and Maureen’s side of the bedroom started leaking. Brian had the top bunk, and when it rained, he’d spread a tarp over himself to keep the dripping water off. Everything in the house was damp. A fine green mold spread over the books and papers and paintings that were stacked so high and piled so deep you could hardly cross the room. Tiny mushrooms sprouted up in corners. The moisture ate away at the wooden stairs leading up to the house, and climbing them became a daily hazard. Mom fell through a rotted step and went tumbling down the hillside. She had bruises on her legs and arms for weeks. “My husband doesn’t beat me,” she’d say when anyone stared at them. “He just won’t fix the stairs.” The porch had also started to rot. Most of the banisters and railing had given way, and the floorboards had turned spongy and slick with mold and algae. It became a real problem when you had to go down under the house to use the toilet at night, and each of us had slipped and fallen off the porch at least once. It was a good ten feet to the ground. “We have to do something about the porch situation,” I told Mom. “It’s getting downright dangerous to go to the bathroom at night.” Besides, the toilet under the house was now totally unusable. It had overflowed, and you were better off digging yourself a hole in the hillside somewhere. “You’re right,” Mom said. “Something has to be done.” She bought a bucket. It was made of yellow plastic, and we kept it on the floor in the kitchen, and that was what we used whenever we had to go to the bathroom. When it filled up, some brave soul would carry it outside, dig a hole, and empty it.

• From The Case for God (2009)

  During the 1640s and 1650s, for example, England had seen a violent civil war, the execution of King Charles I (1649), and a period of republican rule under the Puritan government of Oliver Cromwell (1599–1658). Levelers, Quakers, Diggers, and Muggletonians had developed their own revolutionary piety.36 If God dwelled in nature— if, as some said, God was nature—there was no need for clerics and churches, and everybody should share the nation’s prosperity. George Fox (1624–91), founder of the Society of Friends, taught Christians to seek their own inner light and “make use of their own understanding without direction from another”;37 in the scientific age, religion should be “experimental,” every one of its doctrines tested empirically against each person’s experience.38 For Richard Coppin, the God within was the only true authority. Because God informed all things, Jacob Bauthumely regarded the worship of a distinct, separate God as blasphemous, while Laurence Clarkson called upon the omnipresent God to empower the people to bring the aristocracy down. This fervid piety was not quelled by the restoration of the monarchy in 1660 under King Charles II; it simply went underground. The next thirty years were a time of extreme anxiety, since people feared another violent revolution.39 A flourishing market economy was developing in London and the southeast, but the poor resented the affluence of the new commercial classes, the authority of the recently established Church of England, and the privileges of the landed gentry. In Cambridge, the mathematician and clergyman Isaac Barrow (1630–77) developed a liberal Anglicanism that he hoped would help to build an orderly society, modeled on the cosmos, in which all people kept to their proper orbits and worked together harmoniously for the common good. A regular member of these discussion groups was the young Isaac Newton (1642–1727).40 Like Descartes, Newton aspired to create a universal science capable of interpreting the whole of human experience. Where Descartes’ quest had been solitary, Newton understood the importance of cooperation in science. He wanted to build on the achievements of his great predecessors, and felt, as he wrote to his friend Robert Hooke, as though he were “standing on the shoulders of giants.”41 But these giants had left some unanswered questions: What kept the planets in their orbits? Why did terrestrial objects always fall to the ground? In a series of lectures, published in 1687, Newton argued that the universal science was not mathematics, as Descartes had believed, but mechanics, “which accurately proposes and demonstrates the art of measuring.”42 His Universal Mechanics would start by measuring the motions of the universe and then, on the basis of these findings, go on to explain all other phenomena.43

• From The Case for God (2009)

  The profound societal changes of early modernity caused many to feel disoriented and lost. Living in medias res, they could not see the direction that their society was taking but experienced its slow transformation in isolated, incoherent ways. As the old mythology that had given structure and significance to their ancestors crumbled in this new situation, many seem to have experienced the sense of powerlessness that had afflicted Luther. Before their own conversions to fresh religious vision, Zwingli and Calvin had also experienced a paralyzing helplessness before the trials of human existence and were convinced that they could contribute nothing toward their own salvation. Consequently, all the reformers emphasized the unqualified divine sovereignty that would not only characterize the modern God but also help to shape the Scientific Revolution.31 The emphasis on God’s absolute power meant that God alone could change the course of events, so human beings, who were essentially impotent, must rely on his unconditional might. When the young Zwingli had contracted the plague that wiped out 25 percent of the population of Zurich, he knew there was nothing he could do to save himself. “Do as you will for I lack nothing,” he prayed. “I am your vessel to be restored or destroyed.”32 The young Calvin had felt so in thrall to the institutional Church that he was both unwilling and unable to break free, and it had taken what seemed a divine initiative to shift him: “At last God turned my course in a different direction by the hidden bridle of his providence … by a sudden conversion to docility, he tamed a mind too stubborn for its years.”33 When Luther spoke of the faith that could justify men and women he did not, of course, mean “belief” in our modern sense but an act of total trust in the absolute power of God. “Faith,” he explained in one of his sermons, “does not require information, knowledge and certainty, but a free surrender and joyful bet on his unfelt, untried and unknown goodness.”34 Luther had no time for the “false theologian,” who “looks upon the invisible things of God as though they were clearly perceptible in those things that have actually happened.”35 Far from giving a clear vision, faith brought “a sort of darkness that can see nothing.”36 Alienated from the natural theology of Scotus and Ockham, he did not imagine for one moment that the investigation of the cosmos or natural reasoning could bring us true knowledge of God. It was not only pointless but could even be dangerous to try to prove God’s existence, because too much speculation about God’s inconceivable might in governing the universe could cause human beings to fall into a state of abject despair and terror.37 But despite its religious motivation, this deliberate desacralization of the cosmos was a secularizing idea that would encourage scientists to approach the world independently of the divine.38

• From City of Night (1963)

  One sharply cold windy Sunday afternoon—the clouds sweeping the newyork sky like sheets—I saw him coming toward me where I was standing. “You wanna score?” he says. “See that old cat over there?” He pointed to a small mousy man a few feet away. “He wants us both to come over to his house. Hes only good for five,” he explained, adding quickly when he saw me hesitating: “but most of the time hell lay more if he digs you.... Cummon, man,” he coaxed me. “Lets go with him. It’s a draggy day anyhow. And anyway, we get to eat there real good.” He adds, smiling secretly. “And we dont have to do much. Oh, hes Special!” Remembering the man I had walked around Times Square with, wearing a jacket and cap, I began to laugh. “Not that,” Pete says, “we wont be walking around Times Square in leather.” Without going to him, Pete motions yes to the man, who goes down the steps, into the subway. Pete and I follow. I was walking fast, to catch up with the man. “Cool it,” Pete explains. “I know where we get off.” Without glancing back, the man gets in one of the cars, and we got in another. “He doesnt want anyone to see him leaving with guys,” Pete said. I had been through this before: Unlike the black-dressed Al, who walked you around for an hour through Times Square, some scores dont want to be seen leaving the street with a younger man. “He lives in—hold on— Queens!” Pete laughed. “And dig this, spote: I think he teaches at Queens College. They even got a school now,” he says, shaking his head. We got off at Queens Plaza, and followed the man to a large apartment house. We waited at the corner for a few minutes, and then we walked into the lobby. It’s a moderate-priced apartment house, very quiet, softly lighted. We reached the second floor, and along the hallway, a door was open slightly. There stood the little man beaming at us sweetly. He had taken off his coat, and he was wearing a gayly colored apron now. “Hello, hello, hello!” he chirped merrily. “Im so glad you boys could come. I was hardly expecting—” Pete whispered to me (I couldnt see how the man could help but hear him, but possibly neither cared): “Play it Cool and go along with it.” At times Pete seemed to have an enormous tolerance for the quirks of the people he knew: a tolerance which could instantly turn into intolerance when he felt he’d been had. “Itll be just a few minutes, boys,” the old man announced, “and then we’ll have a Lovely dinner. You boys must be famished, and I just happen to have some Very Nice Steaks. Now,” he says, and his voice trembles slightly, “you boys get—uh—Comfortable.” He stood watching us intently. I glanced at Pete, and he had begun to unbutton his shirt.

• From City of Night (1963)

  (This is how I happen to be here now, drinking tea, selfconsciously, with this man: Only a few nights earlier, at the Stirrup Club, I had noticed a man wearing knee-length boots, a dark leather jacket with a goldsewn insignia of a rapacious bird, a cap much like that of a policeman, and a silver chain around his left shoulder. I asked the person I was with who he was. “Neil,” he answered, “the weirdest character in San Francisco. I’d keep away from him if I were you.”... Later that night, Neil had come over—he knew the man I was with—and introduced himself. Brazenly, he asked me to have lunch with him the next day. Considering him the most ridiculous man I had ever seen—but still greatly intrigued—I said yes.) “Shall I freshen up your tea?” “No, thanks, Ive had enough.” “Tea is very invigorating in the afternoon, especially after a big lunch,” he insisted curiously—and poured out another cup. It seemed so ludicrous—this hybrid movie-set room (like a small-scale parody, at times, of a medieval chamber, with anachronistic touches of Contemporary California) and the man in the incredible costume—so ludicrously incongruous it all seemed, to sit sipping the carefully laid out tea (and cookies!) from the small tilac-decorated china cups. Glancing over the teacup, into another room (to avoid looking directly at this man and thereby to thwart his excoriating gaze by not acknowledging it—and throughout lunch he had hardly spoken, concentrating merely on studying me), I catch sight of a foot—just the tip—jutting from behind the slightly open door. I asked Neil: “Are you alone?” “Oh, yes! Just you and me—and my cat,” he answered, savoring the tea loudly as if to induce me to take mine. I dismiss the foot, which hasnt moved. It is probably a shoe—or, more likely, a boot—tossed behind the door. The telephone screams, and I almost drop the cup nervously. Excusing himself, Neil goes into the other room. He steps carefully over the jutting foot as he goes through the door. The door, slightly farther ajar now, reveals, still unmoving, what is definitely a boot. “Hello?” he answers the telephone. A pause. “Hello?” again. Silence. I hear him hang the telephone up. There is a shuffling sound of moving in that next room. The boot disappears entirely. “Ive been getting these Mysterious Calls,” Neil explained, returning. “At least once a day—sometimes more often. Someone calls up, listens to my voice, doesnt say a word.” “Someone must be trying to bug you,” I offered.

• From City of Night (1963)

  Chuck: “Darlin Dolly, huccome you ain got no makeup on this afternoon?” Darling Dolly sighing: “Sweetheart, the fuzz just aint as Tolerant as you are, God Bless You.... Have you seen Trudi? No? My God!—the poor girl’s in a State of Nerves. Skipper has disappeared—Again!” “That ain new,” said Chuck, “he disappears all the time.” Darling Dolly Dane, adjusting her collar so it sticks up higher. “Of course it aint new—but Trudi worries each time like it is—and the way Skipper’s been drinking lately!... And this time she aint seen him for More Than Three Weeks. Now you know how he stays with her, and goes away, and comes back—but he dont stay away that long. And! Poor Trudi’s even checked the joint, and those nasty hulls there and all! (And, babies, this is The Real Truth, I cross my heart: One of the bulls thought Trudi was real fish—she went in drag, and you know how Real she looks—and one of them, he tried to put the make on her, and Trudi said, ‘Fuck off, fuzz!’)... And Trudi says they told her, no, Skipper aint been busted.... Poor Trudi—my God!—youd have to look Far and Wide to find a more Loyal Woman!... Well, honeys,” says Darling Dolly, “your baby sister’s gonna be on her way now.... Honestly, if the fuzz dont stop bugging us, there just aint gonna be a Decent place where a Respectable Queen can go to in the afternoons.... Why, we’ll just have to start cruising the tearooms, and then theyll call us a menace.... And By The Way!” planting her hands indignantly on her hips, “have you seen that Buddy?!” “Whats he done to you this time?” said Chuck. “Do You Know What He Done?” Shes dragging out the obvious for dramatic effect. “Again?” asked Chuck. “Yes.” “Well,” said Chuck, “I bet he clipped your dragclothes an hocked em.”

• From City of Night (1963)

  Off Las Palmas, along—but on the opposite side of—the outdoor newsstand—where professional existentialists with or without sandals leaf through a paperback book and the fairies cruise each other by the physique books, while the lady from, say, Iowa (who will sigh Ahhhhhh as the Premiere searchlights screw the sky), here to attend a PTA convention at the Biltmore, buys a moviebook—off Las Palmas, on Saturday nights especially, the oldman graduate of Pershing Square writes Bible inscriptions on the street: in chalk; neat, incredibly beautiful letters. The young highschool delinquents with flattops proclaiming their Youth heckle him cruelly in merciless teenage fashion while he dashes out his prophecies of not-unlikely Doom: the booming words like the musicless theme of this street.... The fairies, half-listening momentarily to his shouting threats of imminent Judgment (while surveying the crowd for someone Cute), cross the street on their way, perhaps to the Green bar (where Miss Ana Mae—in Congenial Surroundings—will drown those echoing Threats as she plays her organ coyly), and they may say bitchily about the judging prophet: “My dear! Isnt she Too Much?—she should get a Man and settle down”—and swish on giggling—hoping for a Man to settle down with—wondering nervously does tonight’s sexnervousness show beneath the giggles (and this can easily ruin a girl), and will they make it tonight and if so will it be someone Nice and early please God so they wont have to add to the shadows on Selma. And Selma Street is a dark purgatory to which those who havent made it in the bars or on the lighted Boulevard sentence themselves in the desperate hours after midnight Along a distance of about four blocks on that street, throughout the late night and into the first morning hours, male ghostforms haunt Selma along the apartment houses and the outlined trees (all appropriately flimsy in the night like movieprops); stand waiting for a car to stop, for someone to ask them what theyre looking for: If what you want is what hes willing to give, you go; if not, you wait for someone else to emerge out of the shadows.... Faces stare out of dark parked cars you think at first are empty, until a match, lighted suddenly, erupts, revealing a pair of staring eyes in the match-shadowed face.... But Coolly: The plainclothes detectives also cruise this street....