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 59 of 501 · 20 per page

• From Another Country (1962)

  I want that more than I’ve ever wanted anything in the world.” Then the door opened and Cass stood before them, dressed in a rusty orange frock, her hair pulled back and falling around her shoulders. She held a cigarette in one hand, with which she made a gesture of exaggerated welcome. “Come in, children,” she said, “I’m delighted to see you, but there’s absolute chaos in this house today. Everything’s gone wrong.” She closed the door behind them. They heard a child screaming somewhere in the apartment, and Richard’s voice raised in anger. Cass listened for a moment, her forehead wrinkled with worry. “That’s Michael,” she said, helplessly, “He’s been impossible all day—fighting with his brother, with his father, with me. Richard finally gave him a spanking and I guess he’s going to leave him in his room.” Michael’s screams diminished and they heard the voices of Michael and his father working out, apparently, the terms of a truce. Cass lifted her head. “Well. I’m sorry to keep you standing in the hall. Take off your things, I’ll show you into the living room and give you things to drink and to nibble on—you’ll need them, lunch is going to be late, of course. Ida, how are you? I haven’t seen you in God knows when.” She took Ida’s coat and shawl. “Do you mind if I don’t hang them up? I’ll just dump them in the bedroom, other people are coming over after lunch.” They followed her into the large bedroom. Ida immediately walked over to the large, full-length mirror and worriedly patted her hair and applied new lipstick. “I’m just fine, Cass,” she said, “but you’re the one—! You got a famous husband all of a sudden. How does it feel?” “He’s not even famous yet, ” said Cass, “and, already I can’t stand it. Somehow, it just seems to reduce itself to having drinks and dinners with lots of people you certainly wouldn’t be talking to if they weren’t”—she coughed—“in the profession . God, what a profession. I had no idea.” Then she laughed. They started toward the living room. “Try to persuade Vivaldo to become a plumber.” “No, dear,” said Ida, “I wouldn’t trust Vivaldo with no tools whatever. This boy is just as clumsy as they come. I’m always expecting him to fall over those front feet he’s got. Never saw anybody with so many front feet.” The living room was down two steps and the wide windows opened on a view of the river. Ida seemed checked, but only for an instant by the view of the river. She walked into the center of the room. “This is wonderful. You people have really got some space.” “We were really very lucky,” Cass said. “The people who had it had been here for years and years and they finally decided to move to Connecticut—or someplace like that.

• From Another Country (1962)

  For how long? And how do you know that?” “How do you — not know it?” “Why—everytime I saw them, they seemed perfectly natural and happy together——” “But many of the times you say you’ve been with them. you couldn’t have been with them because Ida’s been with Steve! ” She still could not quite get it through her head, even though she knew that it was true and although she knew that precious seconds were passing, and that she must soon begin to fight for herself. “How do you know? ” “Because Steve told me! He’s got a real thing about her, he’s going out of his mind.” Now, she did begin to calculate—desperately, cursing Ida for not having given her warning. But how could she have? She said, coldly, “Ellis at the mercy of a great passion—? don’t make me laugh.” “Oh, I know you think we’re made of the coarsest of coarse clay, and are insensitive to all the higher vibrations. I don’t care. You can’t have been seeing much of Ida—that I know. Have you been seeing much of Vivaldo? Answer me, Cass.” She said, wonderingly—for it was this she could not get through her head: “And Vivaldo doesn’t know ——” “And you don’t, either? You’re the only two in town who don’t. What mighty distractions have you two found?” She winced and looked up at him. She saw that he was controlling himself with a great and terrible effort; that he both wanted to know the truth, and feared to know it. She could not bear the anguish in his eyes, and she looked away. How could she ever have doubted that he loved her! “Have you been seeing a lot of Vivaldo? Tell me.” She rose and walked to the window. She felt sick—her stomach seemed to have shrunk to the size of a small, hard, rubber ball. “Leave me alone. You’ve always been jealous of Vivaldo, and we both know why, though you won’t admit it. Sometimes I saw Vivaldo, sometimes I saw Vivaldo with Ida, sometimes I just walked around, sometimes I went to the movies.” “Till two o’clock in the morning?” “Sometimes I’ve come in at midnight, sometimes I’ve come in at four! Leave me alone! Why is it so important to you now? I’ve lived in this house like a ghost for months, half the time you haven’t known I was here—what does it matter now?” His face was wet and white and ugly. “ I have lived here like a ghost, not you. I’ve known you were here, how could I not know it?” He took one step toward her. He dropped his voice. “Do you know how you made your presence known? By the way you look at me, by the contempt in your eyes when you look at me. What have I done to deserve your contempt? What have I done, Cass?

• From Another Country (1962)

  It had been a long time. He had become bored by the people with whom one turned on, and really rather bored with marijuana. Either it did not derange his senses enough, or he was already more than sufficiently deranged. And he found the hangover crushing and it interfered with his work and he had never been able to make love on it. Still, it had been a long time. It was only ten past eleven, he did not know what he was going to do with himself. He wanted to enter into, or to forget, the chaos at his center. “Maybe,” he said. “Let me buy a round first. What’re you drinking?” “We could make it on back to my pad,” said Harold, scowling his little scowl. “I’m having beer,” said Lorenzo. His expression indicated that he would rather have had something else, but did not wish to seem to be taking advantage of Vivaldo. Vivaldo turned to Belle. “And you?” She dropped her hand and leaned forward. “Do you think I could have a brandy Alexander?” “God,” he said, “if you can drink it, I guess they can make it.” She leaned back again, unsmiling, oddly ladylike, and he looked at Harold. “Beer, dad,” Harold said. “Then we’ll split.” So he walked over to the bar, and ordered the round, making a special trip to carry the brimming, viscous Alexander. He knew that Lorenzo liked rye and so he bought him a straight one and a bottle of beer, and a beer for Harold, and a double bourbon for himself. Let’s go for broke, he thought, the hell with it. Let’s see what happens. And he really could not tell, because he did not want to know, whether he was acting out of panic or recklessness or pain. There was certainly something he did not want to think about: he did not want to think about where Ida was, or what she was doing now. Not now, later for you, baby. He did not want to go home and lie awake, waiting, or walk up and down, staring at his typewriter and staring at the walls. Later for all that, later. And beneath all this was the void where anguish lived and questions crouched, which referred only to Vivaldo and to no one else on earth. Down there, down there, lived the raw, unformed substance for the creation of Vivaldo, and only he, Vivaldo, alone, could master it. “Here’s how,” he said, and, unsteadily, they raised their glasses, and drank. “Thanks, Vivaldo,” said Lorenzo, and downed his whiskey in a single swallow. Vivaldo looked at the young face, which was damp and a little gray and would soon be damper and grayer.

• From How to Deal with Angry People (2023)

  10. How to combine strategies. Throughout, I’ll offer real-life examples from people I’ve talked to and share current research to help you navigate these emotionally taxing moments. More importantly, though, this book will show you how to build and embrace an identity as someone who wants and is able to interact with angry people productively and effectively. It takes more than just tools to be successful in navigating the anger and hostility of others. Those tools are important, of course. You need to have them and you need to be able to use them. Beyond that, though, you need to have healthy outcomes in mind and you need to be able to stick to those goals as things get heated. This book will show you how to keep those goals in mind and embrace an identity as a calm and confident navigator of other people’s anger. * This has actually happened more than once in the past two years. In one instance, a flight attendant had her nose broken after being punched twice by a passenger. In another, a flight attendant was punched multiple times and had several teeth chipped. * I asked a librarian friend of mine about this after the call and she said that, like any service-type job, she had to deal with angry patrons sometimes. She also told me that she had felt the same uptick in hostility as the person who called me. * People are sometimes surprised to learn that I put myself in this category. While I am unlikely to express my anger in a hostile or aggressive way, I find myself frequently angry about a variety of social issues. * I heard from more than one person that they found reading my last book personally challenging for this very reason. They told me they had started to see the harm they might be doing to themselves and others, and seeing that harm made introspection really scary for them. PART ONE UNDERSTANDING ANGRY PEOPLE

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

  Once the law was satisfied, 'a man was free to do what he liked. There was thus scope for works of supererogation, "good works" in the technical sense of the term.' Bultmann continues: 'These provided a basis for merit in the proper sense of the word. The accumulation of merits might serve to atone for breaches of the Law' (p. 69). The legalistic conception of man's relation to God led to the view that at the judgment all of one's works would be counted and weighed, the verdict on a man's fate being determined by the balance of merits and demerits. As a result, 'the prospect of salvation became highly uncertain. Who could be sure he had done enough in this life to be saved?' (p. 70). An example is provided by the death-bed scene of R. Johanan hen Zakkai, who wept because he was uncertain of his fate. Thus coupled with uncertainty there developed an acute consciousness of sin and a 'morbid sense of guilt' (p. 70). But Jewish legalism led not only to an unhealthy anxiety, but also to smug self-righteousness: 'It is a remarkable fact that side by side with this sense of sin and urge to repentance we find the "righteous" proud and self- conscious' (p. 71). From a passage in IV Ezra Bultmann concludes that even repentance was not a valid religious impulse; rather, it became simply another good work which could secure merit in God's sight. 'In the end the whole range of man's relation with God came to be thought of in terms of merit ... ' (p. 71). At the beginning of this summary of Bultmann's view, we noted that Bultmann cited Moore alongside Bousset without noting that Moore contradicts Bousset at point after point. It is even more revealing of how Weber's view continued despite the objections of experts in Rabbinics to note Bultmann's treatment of Sjoberg's work, Gott und die Sunder im palastinischen Judentum. 40 We shall subsequently have occasion to deal 40 Published in 1939. Tannaitic Literature [I with some of Sjoberg's principal views. It will suffice here to note that he consciously based his work on Moore's 'fundamental book', while hoping in some respects to correct and go beyond Moore. 41 Sjoberg also cited as works which viewed Rabbinic Judaism in the correct light those of such authors as Herford, Buchler, Marmorstein, Bonsirven and Montefiore. 42 He explicitly noted that the three works which were most in use by Christian theologians-those by Weber, Schurer and Bousset-although they contain much useful material, present 'kein richtiges Bild des Judentums' . 43 He was further of the view that this negative evaluation of those works was becoming increasingly widespread.

• From Real Life (2020)

  C’est juste que je ne sais pas quoi faire. — S’il ne te trompe pas, s’il cherche juste… — Chercher, c’est tromper, Wallace. » Sa voix est coupante, c’est comme presser la main contre un couteau oublié au soleil. Il luit dans ses yeux une colère inflexible. Wallace déglutit à grand-peine. « Bon, je crois qu’il va falloir que tu en parles avec lui, alors. — Je ne sais pas comment, fait Cole, et ses épaules s’affaissent. Je ne sais pas par où commencer. Merde. » Le tennis, c’est fini pour aujourd’hui. Cole se laisse tomber sur le banc et se prend la tête entre les mains. Il ne pleure pas, mais il respire fort. Wallace se place au bord du banc et pose la main sur l’épaule de Cole. Il est trempé de sueur, tout chaud. C’est comme la fois en première année, dans le van, sous la pluie, et Wallace sent cette nostalgie lointaine revenir affleurer en lui. « Ça va s’arranger. — Je n’en suis pas certain. — Mais si. C’est obligé », dit Wallace, profitant d’une montée, non pas d’assurance, mais de désespoir pour aider son ami à voir le bout de cette crise, quoi qu’il en coûte. « C’est normal. Tous les couples se disputent. Ils se cachent des choses, ils s’engueulent. Ça veut dire que tu es dans quelque chose qui mérite le prix que tu lui accordes. » Cole a les yeux humides lorsqu’il relève les yeux de la courbe de ses paumes. Ses joues sont moites, de sueur ou de larmes, Wallace ne sait pas trop. Ses lèvres s’entrouvrent, et il laisse échapper un son doux et triste. « Hé, dit Wallace. Hé. — Non, tu as raison. Il faut que je me comporte en adulte, que je me dégonfle pas. Putain, qu’est-ce qu’il fait chaud ici. — Tu m’étonnes. On peut aller au lac si tu veux. » Cole réfléchit, regarde les courts déserts. On entend le grondement du stade. Une voiture passe sur la route. Les corbeaux ont recommencé leur cacophonie dans les arbres. L’ombre projetée par la clôture est médiocre et criblée de petits trous de lumière. On croirait regarder le ciel sous un filet. Une perle de sueur isolée le long de l’oreille de Cole. Wallace est tenté de la récupérer au bout de son doigt, pour dire : Fais un vœu, mais ça ne marche pas avec l’eau. On ne trouve pas de vœux dans l’eau salée, pas de magie, à part, dans certains cas, la manière dont les gouttes se transforment en étoiles quand on les disperse, par exemple au bout d’un doigt, en soufflant dessus. « OK, bonne idée. OK. » Ils se lèvent du banc, les muscles raides et les articulations douloureuses.

• From Real Life (2020)

  Elle s’efforce, à sa façon, de le dire avec autant de douceur et de bienveillance que possible. « C’est mon travail, dit-il. C’est mon travail, Katie. Je fais de mon mieux. Et si ce n’est pas assez rapide à ton goût, je suis désolé. — Je veux bien, mais tu ne peux pas prendre ton temps comme ça quand le travail des autres est sur la sellette, Wallace. — Je ne prends pas mon temps. Je fais mon travail. Je fais ce que je peux. — Eh bien, parfois, je crois qu’il faut céder sa place, si ton mieux n’est pas suffisant. Genre si, objectivement, tu n’es pas à la hauteur, c’est égoïste de rester et de bloquer tout le monde. — Je te bloque, Katie ? C’est ce que tu penses ? » Katie ne lui répond rien. Elle ne le regarde pas. Elle s’est appuyée de tout son poids contre la paillasse, les jambes croisées. On entend des coups répétés dans l’autre partie du labo, des tintements d’ustensiles en verre. De l’eau qui coule. Wallace a froid. Ses doigts se raidissent. S’il bloque Katie, il va s’effacer. S’il gêne sa progression, il lui accordera ce qu’elle veut. Mais elle sait aussi bien que lui que le fait qu’elle soit capable de réaliser l’expérience mieux et plus vite que lui ne signifie pas qu’elle ait le temps d’effectuer le travail de Wallace en plus du sien. Ce n’est pas pour rien que le projet dans son ensemble a été réparti de cette manière : Wallace devait se charger de l’aspect technique tandis que Katie s’occupait du champ d’expérimentation plus rigoureux : parce qu’elle ne pouvait pas tout faire. Vient un moment où l’on doit reconnaître ses limites, et accepter que l’aptitude à effectuer une tâche ne revient pas automatiquement à en avoir la possibilité. Elle est frustrée par cette réalité. L’agacement se lit sur son visage. Elle pousse un soupir. « Bon, bouclons ça – j’en ai marre d’attendre, conclut-elle en tournant les talons. Boucle ça, Wallace. — Entendu. » Les mots de Katie l’ont piqué au vif. Il a mal à la tête. Le laboratoire est d’une luminosité aveuglante. Que faire ? Il a à peine le temps de réfléchir que Simone émerge de la petite salle de repos. En le voyant, elle change de direction pour venir vers lui. « Wallace », dit-elle, d’une voix rauque, qui, inexplicablement, évoque l’accent du Sud. « Tu as un moment ? — Oui. Bien sûr. — Parfait, dit-elle, souriant à présent. Allons dans mon bureau. » Le bureau de Simone est à un angle du bâtiment. Il a vue sur le pont, au loin, et sur une rangée d’arbres petits mais robustes. On aperçoit aussi un genévrier et, à cette hauteur, les courts de tennis et même un croissant de lac sont visibles.

• From Real Life (2020)

  Des guêpes leur tournent autour dans la nuit, attirées par les traces de bière collante sur la table et par leurs glaces. Il leur fait les gros yeux, comme si ça allait les chasser. Brigit pousse un petit rire. « J’arrive pas à croire que demain c’est déjà lundi, dit-elle en renversant la tête en arrière. Tu y crois toi ? — Ça se produit toutes les semaines. À croire que c’est une mode. — L’humour, c’est pas ton truc. — Je sais bien. On a tous nos défauts. Et nos qualités. — T’es pas gentil », dit-elle, sèchement, mais sans menace. « J’ai appris que tu avais eu une discussion avec Katie. — Qui t’a dit ça ? — Katie. — Ah, j’aurais dû m’en douter. — Si tu veux… enfin tu sais. — Je sais. Je sais, merci. Mais j’ai pas le choix, à part faire ce que j’ai à faire, j’imagine. — OK », fait Brigit, mais elle n’est pas convaincue. Son front est plissé d’inquiétude. Wallace se demande ce que Katie a pu dire exactement, comment elle a formulé les choses. « Elle n’était pas très contente que tu sois parti aujourd’hui, au fait. — Je sais, elle avait l’air furax. Mais elle a toujours l’air furax. — C’est vrai, j’avoue. C’est juste parce qu’elle s’apprête à présenter sa thèse – bientôt elle sera partie, et on n’aura plus de problème. — Et après c’est toi, dit doucement Wallace. Ensuite c’est ton tour. — Et ensuite c’est ton tour ! », fait gaiement Brigit, et Wallace s’affaisse, tombe dans le silence. La glace est bien froide, parfaite. La vanille est un goût vide. Il passe la cuiller le long de ses lèvres, pour les anesthésier. Le papier qui enveloppe la coupelle en gaufrette est trempé à présent. Brigit, sentant qu’elle a franchi une limite entre eux, lui jette un regard contrit. Mais de quoi s’excuse-t-elle ? Quel intérêt de s’excuser auprès de lui à ce stade ? « Simone… », commence-t-il, pressant sa langue contre l’arrière de ses dents, les yeux tournés vers l’eau. « Simone m’a demandé de réfléchir à ce que je veux. Si je veux vraiment rester ici. Rester à la fac. — Oh putain, fait Brigit, levant les yeux au ciel. Quelle connasse prétentieuse. — Brigit. — C’est vrai, c’est ce qu’elle est. C’est quoi, cette question ? — Une question très sérieuse. J’ai eu des emmerdes avec Dana, hier. Ça ne mérite pas de revenir dessus, mais Simone en a après moi. » Brigit reprend son sérieux. « Elle envisage de te mettre dehors ? » Wallace ne répond pas. Il prend une nouvelle cuillerée de glace, savoure sa fraîcheur parfaite. Brigit lui presse le bras. « Franchement, elle y pense ? — Elle me demande de réfléchir très sérieusement à ce que je veux. Et c’est logique.

• From Real Life (2020)

  Et en plus, il est blanc, ce qui n’est jamais un désavantage auprès des gays. Mais Wallace ne dit rien de tel car il risquerait de perturber la vision de Cole, qui considère l’homme gay moyen comme superficiel et un peu bête – c’est vrai, ils sont superficiels et un peu bêtes, mais pas plus que n’importe quelle population. Si Wallace a supprimé l’appli, c’est seulement qu’il en avait marre de se voir invisible pour les autres, du silence croissant de sa messagerie. Il ne cherchait pas, de toute façon, mais en même temps, il voulait être regardé comme tout le monde, être vu. « J’ai vu Vincent dessus, la nuit dernière. — Ah bon ? Et qu’est-ce que tu faisais dessus, toi ? — Je soupçonnais qu’il était inscrit. Alors j’ai créé un faux profil. — C’est pas un peu… ? — Je sais, je sais, mais il fallait que je voie s’il était inscrit. Et il y était. Tu imagines ? — Vous en avez déjà parlé, tous les deux ? — Non. Enfin si… On a dit qu’on y penserait, tu vois ? À ouvrir notre couple. Je ne sais pas pourquoi je ne suffis pas. — Peut-être que tu suffis. Ce n’est pas la question. Peut-être qu’il a juste envie… d’un truc différent. Je ne sais pas. — Mais pourquoi il fait ça en douce ? — Je ne sais pas. — C’est ça qui me tue, Wallace. Qu’il fasse ça dans mon dos. — Et il l’a fait ? — Pas que je sache. Merde. J’en sais rien. En principe, on doit réfléchir à adopter un chien, tu vois ? On doit penser à notre mariage. À s’installer. Et c’est maintenant qu’il veut ouvrir notre couple. » Wallace pousse un long soupir. Il referme la main sur l’épaule de Cole. « Allez, viens. On fait des balles. » Wallace et Cole jouent au tennis ensemble depuis leur première année de troisième cycle. Ils sont de force à peu près égale : Wallace a un bon revers fluide à une main et Cole a une facilité pour les coups droits. Wallace a tendance à lober sans maîtrise sur ses coups droits et le revers de Cole est saccadé, laborieux. Quand ils font un match, ça se joue à quelques points, mais Cole l’emporte en général car son service est plus régulier, et quand il est acculé, il arrive à sortir quelques aces qui laissent Wallace déséquilibré, agitant les bras en vain.

• From Real Life (2020)

  Pendant les séminaires de l’après-midi, il se surprenait à s’assoupir, bercé par les discours sur le séquençage complet et la résonance magnétique nucléaire des protéines. Les professeurs inspiraient bruyamment de l’air et parlaient de cette voix suave, apprêtée, rendue populaire par certaines vidéos sur l’art et la science largement diffusées. C’était toujours : Je vais vous raconter une histoire ou Je vais partager avec vous trois fascinants arcs narratifs, ou J’aimerais vous accompagner sur le chemin de là à là . Et sur les sièges rigides de l’amphi, où il n’y avait ni réseau ni wi-fi, où tout le bois était blond, les murs habillés de lambris ondoyant et le sol couvert d’un revêtement favorisant le confort acoustique, Wallace dérivait comme dans des eaux où il lui était impossible de nager. Il buvait plus de caféine qu’il n’en avait ingurgité de toute sa vie et passait ses après-midi affligé de violentes diarrhées. Wallace buvait tant de café que le monde semblait un peu plus lumineux, sur le point de devenir convexe, comme si chaque rai de lumière le cherchait, lui, personnellement. Et un jour, Henrik lui donna un conseil : La caféine est un excitant . Wallace en resta perplexe. On aurait dit un aphorisme bidon. Henrik lui disait ça à chaque fois que Wallace revenait de la cafétéria en sous-sol avec une tasse de café, à chaque fois qu’ils prenaient l’ascenseur ensemble après un séminaire au cours duquel Wallace s’était servi tasse sur tasse au buffet gratuit. Il avait des palpitations. La bouche sèche. Le bout des doigts raide et gonflé. Il avait la sensation qu’on l’expulsait de sa peau comme une saucisse de son boyau. Des bruits bizarres le faisaient sursauter en pleine nuit quand il travaillait tout seul au labo. Un jour, pendant ses dissections, sa main fut prise d’une violente convulsion, un spasme soudain qui le traversa, et il laissa échapper le scalpel. La lame atterrit dans sa cuisse avec un bruit mat, malsain. Elle ne pénétra pas très profond, mais suffisamment, et Wallace comprit, à ce moment précis, exactement ce qu’avait voulu dire Henrik. Les carreaux blancs sont un océan de lumière dans le milieu d’après-midi, et des pages grises défilent sous les yeux fatigués de Wallace. Il presse le pouce contre l’articulation de ses doigts, un à un, provoquant un craquement franc de la jointure. Un oiseau s’est posé sur l’avant-toit plat et blanc, dehors. Il se nettoie l’intérieur de l’aile. Une petite créature ronde, plumes grises et ventre blanc. Une tête minuscule, presque indiscernable du corps. Juste une petite boule de plumes. L’ombre du volatile sautille sur le sol, et Wallace le regarde jusqu’à ce qu’il disparaisse dans les airs. En venant au labo, Wallace s’est arrêté à la bibliothèque pour emprunter le livre dont a parlé Thom. Le samedi, quand il y a moins de chances que Simone soit là, il lit au labo.

• From Real Life (2020)

  En attendant, quelqu’un avait suggéré qu’ils se rendent tous sur la péninsule pour faire un feu de camp sur les rives limoneuses. Il n’avait jamais été sur une péninsule. Il n’était jamais monté sur un bateau. Il s’était approché des embarcations au ventre jaune, passant la main sur les coques, les bateaux amarrés comme des animaux endormis. Ils étaient lisses, mais poisseux, et ses doigts collaient à la surface. Toute la zone sentait la rouille, l’eau du lac et les plantes pourries. Il y avait des gens séduisants, de haute taille, la peau luisante, en débardeur, qui circulaient tout autour de lui en parlant comme s’ils appartenaient à un monde qui le dépassait. Cela lui rappelait son histoire préférée, celle de la femme qui va à Madrid pour forcer la nature de son caractère à se révéler hors de son cadre habituel, mais s’aperçoit que sa facilité à se fondre dans la masse des Espagnols rend ses efforts futiles. Il s’était considéré comme un mec du Midwest de cœur, considérant qu’être du Sud et être gay étaient incompatibles, que deux parts d’une même personne ne pourraient être plus incompatibles. Mais là, debout parmi les bateaux, attendant timidement de découvrir les gens avec lesquels il avait été sûr de se trouver des affinités immédiates, il comprenait la naïveté de cette idée. Ils étaient finalement arrivés, ses amis désignés, quatre ou cinq personnes, arrivant vers lui sur le trottoir. Au départ, ils n’avaient rien d’un groupe, mais finalement, le rythme de leurs pas lui avait indiqué qu’ils arrivaient vers lui en masse. Deux d’entre eux étaient immenses, un autre tout petit, et il y avait une femme, avec le bras d’un homme maigre autour du cou. L’homme maigre portait une moustache ridicule, mais semblait très sérieux. « Tu es Wallace ? » avait demandé celui qui avait les cheveux couleur sable. « Yngve. Enchanté. — Enchanté », avait dit Wallace, souriant comme malgré lui. Ils allaient être ses amis, les gens qui veilleraient sur lui. Il ne les avait vus que par Internet, leurs petits portraits et des petits bouts de leurs vies transmis par la wi-fi hachée de son oncle. « Je m’appelle Lukas, avec un k », avait dit le roux. Et ensuite, le plus grand avait fait un signe de tête, derrière les autres. « Miller », avait-il dit d’une voix un peu morose. Il était très beau, mais il y avait quelque chose en lui qui reculait alors même qu’il avançait. Wallace avait répondu par un signe de tête. « Je m’appelle Emma – et voilà Thom, mon fiancé, avait dit la fille aux cheveux bouclés.

• From Real Life (2020)

  Ainsi j’ai pour partage des mois de douleur, j’ai pour mon lot des nuits de souffrance. Job 7:3 Notes 1 . Populaire bonbon chocolaté vendu sous forme de petits boudins à la consistance caoutchouteuse. ( Toutes les notes sont de la traductrice. ) Remerciements Mes remerciements, sans ordre particulier, vont à Meredith Kaffel Simonoff, Cal Morgan, Antonio Byrd, Derrick Austin, Natalie Eilbert, Sarah Fuchs, Emily Shelter, Pam Zhang, Philip Wallén, Noah Ballard, Hux Michaels, Justin Torres, Jeanne Thornton, Monet Thomas, Esmé Weijun Wang, Judith Kimble, Sarah Crittenden, Peggy Kroll-Conner, Kim Haupt, Heaji Shin, Erika Sorrensen-Kamakian, Hannah Seidel, Sarah Robinson, Aaron Kershner, Elena Sorokin, Scott Aoki, Abbey Thompson, et à mes comparses de l’IPiB. À propos de l’auteur BRANDON TAYLOR est né en 1989 en Alabama. Real Life , son premier roman publié en 2020, a rencontré un grand succès critique et public. Finaliste du Man Booker Prize, il est traduit dans plus de dix pays et en cours d’adaptation cinématographique. Brandon Taylor vit aujourd’hui à New York. © B ill A dams C’est par un jour de juillet exceptionnellement chaud que Wallace était arrivé dans le Midwest, ayant passé la journée précédente recroquevillé dans un bus Greyhound en provenance d’Alabama. Il dormait lorsqu’ils avaient quitté le Tennessee sous le manteau de l’obscurité, pour entrer dans ce royaume étrange où la campagne, soudain, s’aplatit et se lisse sur des plaines interminables creusées par la glace et l’érosion des montagnes. Il n’était jamais sorti du Sud auparavant, mais ça faisait longtemps qu’il s’efforçait de s’en aller ; maintenant qu’il l’avait fait, il ne ressentait qu’euphorie et liberté. En descendant du bus, cependant, il avait trouvé l’atmosphère aussi lourde que dans le Sud qu’il venait de quitter. Il ne savait pas à quoi s’attendre, et la chaleur collante l’avait fait douter de ses perspectives. Mais c’était la veille, et aujourd’hui il se tenait sur le bord de la jetée, et contemplait la foule. Les gens avaient l’air plutôt sympas, s’était-il dit, comme partout. Ils lui souriaient, et il leur souriait. Il était planté au milieu du trottoir, et c’était avec politesse qu’ils s’excusaient pour le contourner. En Alabama, il s’était planté au bord de l’océan et émerveillé du vaste tumulte gris des flots. Ici, il voyait l’horizon et la rive opposée du lac. Il y avait des lacs en Alabama, bien sûr, mais pas beaucoup, et tous plus petits que celui-là, qui était bordé de conifères – des sapins et des cèdres. Ici, les dimensions du lac étaient stupéfiantes. Il ne s’agissait pas juste d’une grosse flaque, l’idée qu’il se faisait auparavant des lacs. Cela le rendait nerveux de se tenir sur les marches de béton glissantes, mal à l’aise comme si, d’un instant à l’autre, il risquait de tomber et d’être englouti. Il était là pour la journée d’orientation. Ou plutôt, pour rencontrer certains de ses futurs camarades. L’orientation commençait lundi.

• From Real Life (2020)

  Ses recherches portaient sur les réactions d’addition organique : il s’agissait de chercher à comprendre comment et pourquoi les molécules fusionnent, formant d’autres molécules, dans le contexte spécifique de la chimie environnementale. Son conseiller, un homme sec et de haute taille, qui marchait à grands pas chaloupés et tremblait légèrement, était un chercheur respecté, bien que de second plan, dans le champ des pluies acides. Son travail décrivait le processus de la lente accumulation de particules dans l’air qui, lorsque combinées, deviennent toxiques ou acides, et se répandent dans les rivières et les villes avec la pluie, détruisant peu à peu bâtiments et habitations. Le travail de Wallace, à cette époque, consistait à regarder son professeur mélanger des solutions dans un tube capillaire et caser celui-ci dans une machine pour en analyser les spectres. Wallace était loin de comprendre toutes ces choses à l’époque, mais il avait des facilités pour la mémorisation et prenait des notes détaillées. Il s’intéressait suffisamment à la science pour savoir qu’elle était le passeport qui lui permettrait d’échapper au Sud une fois pour toutes. Ce jour-là, pendant l’orientation, lorsque le guide leur avait parlé du carbone du Texas, Wallace avait cligné des yeux lentement, sans rien dire. Il n’avait jamais entendu parler d’une chose pareille. Les dessins à partir desquels il avait appris la chimie n’avaient laissé aucune place pour les plaisanteries ou l’humour. Il ne lui serait jamais venu à l’idée qu’il puisse y avoir cinq liens sur un carbone, même ironiquement. Il avait appris la chimie comme on apprend le français à l’école : trop correctement, par la répétition et la routine, en mémorisant toutes les règles, ce qui bien sûr n’est pas le meilleur moyen d’apprendre une langue qu’on a l’intention de parler. La porte du labo est déjà ouverte, et Wallace dépose ses sacs sur son poste de travail. Un mail l’attend – Simone. Il n’est pas obligé de le lire. Pas obligé d’y répondre. Mais il va le faire, n’est-ce pas ? Ce n’est qu’une question de temps. De toute façon, s’il ne répond pas, ce courrier sera suivi par un autre, puis un autre, une volée de mails tombant sur lui comme des couteaux jusqu’au moment où il n’aura plus le choix. Derrière la fenêtre, les oiseaux sont partis. Il se mord le coin de la lèvre, ouvre le mail, le parcourt. Parmi les réactions à son dernier rapport d’avancement, surlignées en rouge, deux lignes lui sautent aux yeux : Il faut qu’on parle. Je suis inquiète. Wallace referme immédiatement le mail. Ses tripes se contractent. Il ferme hermétiquement les yeux. Le visage de Simone apparaît dans l’obscurité de son esprit : ses yeux bleus intelligents le fixent, impassibles, d’un air entendu. Que va-t-elle dire dans son bureau impeccable, avec les délicates sculptures en bois et les dessins au trait danois ? Qu’est-ce que ça signifie, inquiète ?

• From Another Country (1962)

  “He was supposed to stay at my place,” said Vivaldo, “but we—I—got talking to somebody—and then, when I looked up, he was gone.” He seemed to feel that this was not the best way to put it. “There were lots of his friends around; I figured he had a drink with some of them and then maybe went off and decided to stay the night.” “Do you know these friends?” Ida asked. “Well, I know them when I see them. I don’t know—all their names.” The silence stretched. Vivaldo dropped his eyes. “Did he have any money?” “Well”—he looked to Richard and Cass—“I don’t know.” “How did he look?” They stared at each other. “All right. Tired, maybe.” “I’ll bet.” She sipped her drink; her hand shook a little. “I don’t want to make a big fuss over nothing. I’m sure he’s all right, wherever he is. I’d just like to know. Our Mama and Daddy are having a fit, and,” she laughed, catching her breath roughly, “I guess I am, too.” She was silent. Then: “He’s the only big brother I got.” She sipped her drink, then she put it on the floor beside her chair. She played with the ruby-eyed snake ring on her long little finger. “I’m sure he’s all right,” Cass said, miserably aware of the empty sound of the words, “it’s just that—well, Rufus is like a lot of people I know. When something goes wrong, when he gets hurt, he just wants to go and hide until it’s over. He licks his wounds. Then he comes back.” She looked to Richard for help. He did his best. “I think Cass may be right,” he murmured. “I’ve been everywhere,” said Ida, “everywhere he ever played, I been talking to everybody I could find who ever worked with him, anybody I could find he’d even ever said hello to—I even tried relatives in Brooklyn—” She stopped and turned to Vivaldo. “When you saw him—where did he say he’d been?” “He didn’t say.” “Didn’t you ask him?” “Yes. He wouldn’t say.” “I gave you a phone number to call the minute you saw him. Why didn’t you call me?” “It was late when he came to my house, he asked me not to call, he said he was coming to see you in the morning!” He sounded helpless and close to tears. She stared at him, then dropped her eyes. The silence began to crawl with an acrid, banked hostility emanating from the girl who sat alone, in the round chair, in the center of the room. She looked in turn at each of her brother’s friends. “It’s funny he didn’t make it, then,” she said. “Well, Rufus doesn’t talk much,” said Richard. “You must know how hard it is to get anything out of him.” “Well,” she said, shortly, “I would have got it out of him.” “You’re his sister,” Cass said, gently. “Yes,” Ida said, and looked down at her hands.

• From Another Country (1962)

  The driver turned in his seat resignedly, and turned on his meter. “You go on in, Vivaldo,” Cass said again. “I’m sorry. I’ll be right back.” “You have enough money on you?” “Yes. Go on in.” He got out of the cab, looking helpless and annoyed, and turned into the chapel as the cab pulled away. The driver left her at the corner of 125th Street and Eighth Avenue and she realized, as she hurried down the wide, crowded street, that she was in a strange, unnameable state, neither rage nor tears but close to both. One small, lone, white woman hurrying along 125th Street on a Saturday morning was apparently a very common sight, for no one looked at her at all. She did not see any stores with ladies hats in the window. But she was hurrying too fast and looking too hard. If she did not pull herself together, she might very well spend the day wandering up and down this street. For a moment she thought to stop one of the women—one of the women whose faces she watched as though they contained something it was necessary for her to learn—to ask directions. Then she realized that she was mysteriously afraid: afraid of these people, these streets, the chapel to which she must return. She forced herself to walk more slowly. She saw a store and entered it. A Negro girl came toward her, a girl with red, loosely waved hair, who wore a violently green dress and whose skin was a kind of dusty copper. “Can I help you?” The girl was smiling, the same smile—as Cass insisted to herself—that all salesgirls, everywhere, have always worn. This smile made Cass feel poor and shabby indeed. But now she felt it more vehemently than she had ever felt it before. And though she was beginning to shake with a thoroughly mysterious anger, she knew that her dry, aristocratic sharpness, however well it had always worked downtown, would fail of its usual effect here. “I want,” she stammered, “to see a hat.” Then she remembered that she hated hats and never wore them. The girl, whose smile had clearly been taught her by masters, looked as though she sold at least one hat, every Saturday morning, to a strange, breathless, white woman. “Will you come with me?” she asked. “Well—no,” Cass said, suddenly—and the girl turned, impeccably made up eyebrows arched—“I mean, I don’t really want a hat.” Cass tried to smile; she wanted to run. Silence had fallen over the shop. “I think I’d just like to get a scarf. Black”—and how the word seemed to roll through the shop!—“for my head,” she added, and felt that in another moment they would call the police. And she had no way of identifying herself. “Oh,” said the girl. Cass had managed to wipe away the smile. “Marie!” she called, sharply, “will you take care of this lady?”

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

  It would have been absolutely unthinkable for me, or, for that matter, for any of my close friends, to have decided to take what is now called a “gap” year, to join an organization like the Peace Corps (which did not yet exist), or volunteer for humanitarian work in other countries, or choose one of the many other options so commonplace in the world of my children and their peers. For all of us there was the ever-present pressure of the medical admission process. It never occurred to any of us to take any longer than necessary to reach medical school. But I felt an additional pressure: I needed to lock in my relationship with Marilyn. I needed to succeed, to show her I would have a solid career and would become a person of such consequence that she would be persuaded to marry me. She was half a year behind me, and her French teacher urged her to apply to Wellesley College, which immediately accepted her. In her senior year of high school, her sorority big sister advised her that she was too young to be permanently pinned down and she should, at least occasionally, go out with other guys. This did not sit well with me and I still remember the names of the two boys she dated. As soon as she left for Wellesley, I grew extremely anxious about losing her: I felt I couldn’t compete with the Ivy League guys she would be meeting. I wrote her constantly expressing my worry that I could not possibly be interesting enough for her, that she was meeting other men, that I might lose her. My whole life at that time was lived in the pre-med sciences, in which Marilyn took no interest whatsoever. I saved Marilyn’s letters, and a few years ago, Wellesley , the college magazine, published a number of them. D uring those years, I was so weighed down with anxiety and had such great difficulty sleeping that I should have seen a therapist, but it didn’t seem like an option then. However, if I were to have seen a therapist like me then, I imagine the dialogue would have gone something like this: D R. Y ALOM: You said on the phone your anxiety was almost unbearable. Tell me more about that. I RVIN: Look at my fingernails, bitten to the quick. I’m ashamed of them and I try to hide my nails when I’m with anyone: look at them. A vise-like pressure in my chest. My sleep is screwed up completely. I use Dexedrine and coffee to pull all-nighters to study for exams and now I can’t sleep without sleeping pills. D R. Y ALOM: What are you taking? I RVIN: Seconal, every night. D R. Y ALOM: Who prescribes it for you? I RVIN: I just snitch it from my folks. For as long as I can remember they’ve both popped a Seconal every single night. I’ve wondered if perhaps insomnia is genetic.

• From Another Country (1962)

  “I mean, right now.” “That’s what I thought you meant.” They both laughed. Yet, it crossed his mind that she meant it. “Anyone I know?” “Are you kidding? Just think of the people you know.” He smiled. “All right. But please don’t do anything silly, Cass.” She looked down. “I don’t think I will,” she murmured. Then, “Let’s get the bill.” They signaled the waiter, and paid him, and walked into the streets again. The sun was going down, but the heat had not lessened. The stone and steel and wood and brick and asphalt which had soaked in the heat all day would be giving it back all night. They walked two blocks, to the corner of Fifth Avenue, in silence; and in this silence something lived which made Vivaldo oddly reluctant to leave Cass alone. The corner on which they stood was absolutely deserted, and there was very little traffic. “Which way are you going?” he asked her. She looked up and down the Avenue—up and down. From the direction of the park there came a green and yellow cab. “I don’t know. But I think I’ll go to that movie.” The cab stopped, several blocks from them, waiting for a red light. Cass abruptly put up her hand. Again, he volunteered. “Would you like me to come with you? I could act as your protection.” She laughed. “No, Vivaldo, thank you. I don’t want to be protected any more.” And the cab swerved toward them. They both watched it approach, it slowed and stopped. He looked at her with his eyebrows very high. “Well—” he said. She opened the door and he held it. “Thank you, Vivaldo,” she said. “Thank you for everything. I’ll be in touch with you in a few days. Or call me, I’ll be home.” “Okay, Cass.” He made a fist and touched her on the chin. “Be good.” “You, too. Good-bye.” She got into the cab and he slammed the door. She leaned forward to the driver, the cab rolled forward, downtown. She turned back to wave at him and the cab turned west. It was like waving good-bye to land: and she could not guess what might have befallen her when, and if, she ever saw land again.

• From Another Country (1962)

  “No. No, I hadn’t meant to suggest that.” He tried to smile. “He was very wrapped up in his music, he was very much—himself. I was younger then, I may not always have—understood.” He felt sweat in his armpits, on his forehead, between his legs. “Oh.” She looked at him from very far away. “You may have wanted more from him than he could give. Many people did, men and women.” She allowed this to hang between them for an instant. Then, “He was terribly attractive, wasn’t he? I always think that that was the reason he died, that he was too attractive and didn’t know how—how to keep people away.” She sipped her drink. “People don’t have any mercy. They tear you limb from limb, in the name of love. Then, when you’re dead, when they’ve killed you by what they made you go through, they say you didn’t have any character. They weep big, bitter tears—not for you. For themselves, because they’ve lost their toy.” “That’s a terribly grim view,” he said, “of love.” “I know what I’m talking about. That’s what most people mean, when they say love.” She picked up a cigarette and waited for him to light it. “Thank you. You weren’t here, you never saw Rufus’s last girl friend—a terrible little whore of a nymphomaniac, from Georgia. She wouldn’t let him go, he tried all kinds of ways of getting away from her. He even thought of running away to Mexico. She got him so he couldn’t work—I swear, there’s nothing like a Southern white person, especially a Southern woman, when she gets her hooks into a Negro man.” She blew a great cloud of smoke above his head. “And now she’s still living, the filthy white slut, and Rufus is dead.” He said, hoping that she would really hear him but knowing she would not, perhaps could not, “I hope you don’t think I loved your brother in that terrible way that you describe. I think we really were very good friends, and—and it was an awful shock for me to hear that he was dead. I was in Paris when I heard.” “Oh! I’m not accusing you. You and I are going to be friends. Don’t you think so?” “I certainly hope so.” “Well, that settles it, as far as I’m concerned.” Then, smiling, with her eyes very big, “What did you do in Paris all that time?” “Oh”—he smiled—“I tried to grow up.” “Couldn’t you have done that here? Or didn’t you want to?” “I don’t know. It was more fun in Paris.” “I’ll bet.” She crushed out her cigarette. “Have you grown up?” “I don’t know,” he said, “any longer, if people do.” She grinned. “You’ve got a point there, Buster.” Vivaldo came back to the table. She looked up at him. “Well? How are the kids?”

• From Another Country (1962)

  His voice was too low; Ida strained forward to hear. He cleared his throat. “We all saw him,” Richard said, “he was fine.” “He was supposed to stay at my place,” said Vivaldo, “but we—I—got talking to somebody—and then, when I looked up, he was gone.” He seemed to feel that this was not the best way to put it. “There were lots of his friends around; I figured he had a drink with some of them and then maybe went off and decided to stay the night.” “Do you know these friends?” Ida asked. “Well, I know them when I see them. I don’t know—all their names.” The silence stretched. Vivaldo dropped his eyes. “Did he have any money?” “Well”—he looked to Richard and Cass—“I don’t know.” “How did he look?” They stared at each other. “All right. Tired, maybe.” “I’ll bet.” She sipped her drink; her hand shook a little. “I don’t want to make a big fuss over nothing. I’m sure he’s all right, wherever he is. I’d just like to know. Our Mama and Daddy are having a fit, and,” she laughed, catching her breath roughly, “I guess I am, too.” She was silent. Then: “He’s the only big brother I got.” She sipped her drink, then she put it on the floor beside her chair. She played with the ruby-eyed snake ring on her long little finger. “I’m sure he’s all right,” Cass said, miserably aware of the empty sound of the words, “it’s just that—well, Rufus is like a lot of people I know. When something goes wrong, when he gets hurt, he just wants to go and hide until it’s over. He licks his wounds. Then he comes back.” She looked to Richard for help. He did his best. “I think Cass may be right,” he murmured. “I’ve been everywhere,” said Ida, “everywhere he ever played, I been talking to everybody I could find who ever worked with him, anybody I could find he’d even ever said hello to—I even tried relatives in Brooklyn—” She stopped and turned to Vivaldo. “When you saw him—where did he say he’d been?” “He didn’t say.” “Didn’t you ask him?” “Yes. He wouldn’t say.” “I gave you a phone number to call the minute you saw him. Why didn’t you call me?” “It was late when he came to my house, he asked me not to call, he said he was coming to see you in the morning!”