Boredom

Passages

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

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• From The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica Volume 10 (2011)

  apart from the world around it, found it easily and entered. “A pint of ‘Speckled Hen’ please,” he said, as casually as if he were a regular in the place. “Tce and lemon in that?” It was the same woman as before, dressed as before, as if still expecting her sober suited clientele though it was now a little too late for them. ’ “No ice or lemon thanks, I'll just take it as it comes,” Brian said, a grin on his face as he realized that she remembered him, thinking that now that the business of the day had finished — the place was _as empty as it had been before, just two other customers in opposite corners of the room — she might be a little more forthcoming in her conversation. “No ice or lemon then,” was all she said, though, pulling his pint 252 Severin Rossetti and setting it before him, then going to the far end of the bar where there was no one to distract her. He sipped his beer and then drank more deeply, ordered another when he had drained that first one, and then a third. Perhaps it was the beer that had him grinning when she came to serve him, and she found his smile engaging, or perhaps it was the slackness of the custom which had her bored. Whatever the reason, this time she did not return to her usual spot at the far end of the bar but stood almost facing Brian, just a little to one side. “A nice place,” he said of the pub, to make conversation. “There’s just you works here?” “T have staff when there’s a need,” she replied. “Lunchtime through to early evening. Times like this, and when you were here before, I can cope alone.” So the pub was hers, she was employer rather than employee, and already his mind was working, running through a number of scenarios. “And later on?” he ventured. “There is no ‘later on’, there isn’t the custom to keep the place ; open once the office workers have gone home.” “So then it’s home for you too?” he supposed. “And where might that be?” “Why do you ask?” she wanted to know. “No special reason.” He shrugged. “Just ... You know...” Just thinking that she might like to go for a meal ... and... you know ... “T have a house, a home,” she told him. “And there’s a small flat in the basement for those times when I need to stay over.” “In that case, I wonder if—?” Brian began, but before he could make his suggestion one of the other two customers was leaving, bidding her goodbye, and the second was at the far end of the bar, wanting her attention. Cursing inwardly as she walked away, Brian swallowed a mouthful of beer, leaving just an inch in the bottom of his glass, and crossed the room to the “gents”.

• From Disrupted: My Misadventure in the Start-Up Bubble (2014)

  Connecting Fearless Friday to the cause of female empowerment pretty much forces the company to go along with it, although I doubt that anyone in management is paying enough attention to know that Fearless Friday is even taking place. The linkage to feminism also makes it impossible for me to skip, because if I do I will risk looking like a classic middle-aged male chauvinist, the old guy who won’t take part in an exercise just because it’s being led by a woman. According to the wiki page, other people in the department have already appointed themselves team leaders and decided what their teams will do. I don’t want to think about what kind of fearless things these people have come up with. I have visions of things like jumping out of airplanes, wrestling bears, or seeing who can stand on the subway tracks for the longest time. Luckily it’s nothing that extreme. One group, under the direction of team leader Jan, will create personal accounts on BuzzFeed and each write one post for that site. Another team will make paintings to decorate our offices. A third will do something that involves sending thank-you notes to customers. Those are the choices. The next morning we all gather in the big conference room on the first floor, where Jordan stands at the podium, grinning like an activity director at summer camp. “How will we know that this day has been a success?” she asks rhetorically. “Well, just by doing this, just by being here, right now, we’ve already succeeded!” Well then, I think, if that’s the case, then let’s declare victory and go home. It’s a nice day. I could play some golf. I don’t actually play golf. I don’t even like golf. But I would rather play golf than do this. Unfortunately, going home is not an option. I join Jan’s group and settle down to write my BuzzFeed post. After a grueling hour, I’m done. I spend the rest of the day wandering around, checking out the other teams. The best by far are the women who are making paintings. Their team leader is Olivia, who a few months ago was an intern but now seems to have become a full-time employee. They have big pieces of poster board and jars of paint from an art supply store, all spread out on the carpet in the main conference room. The paintings are ghastly. I pretend to love them. I ask if I can take photographs. The painters proudly hold up their work, beaming with pride. One of them has created a painting of the HubSpot sprocket logo. Another has just used a paintbrush to write words: “Marketing is not (just) arts and crafts,” her poster says. At the end of the day we regroup in the first-floor conference room to discuss our results. What have we learned? What bold new outside-the-box ideas can we take away from this day and apply to HubSpot’s marketing plans?

• From The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica Volume 10 (2011)

  They had started doing it at work because they had been so fucking bored. Not that Isabel had expected to be thrilled, exactly collecting data in a company that made security systems — let her get this straight — so that “passive requestors” could strengthen the “trust realms” between “insecure” computers, so that web browsers could better ““make requests” of — oh, the whole thing had been so lame to begin with, and so would anybody working in it; but, well, she had needed a job and the industrial park was in driving distance from her apartment (the first she’d ever had, gotten right after graduating college, where she had studied art history, as useless a major as she had been warned it would be), and this was sold to her, too, as another incentive, the short commute, though now in fact she would have preferred a longer ride in the morning, since pressing her foot to the pedal and turning the radio knob were more actions. than she performed at work, more of a physical and mental workout, and she was only half-kidding. Martin had not been her first office mate: Rita had been there to begin with, a nondescript woman of fifty who, to Isabel’s amazement, had already worked there for ten years, and who had a heart attack and took early retirement two days after Isabel arrived (Isabel was not the reason, she had been solemnly reassured by her boss, Owen, as if she ever would have imagined that she was; though, in fact, the reassurance actually made her consider it for a second), and Martin arrived soon after, at about half Rita’s salary, Isabel assumed. He was, she immediately noticed, her own age, dark-haired and not unhandsome, though so slight as to seem positively fragile. Isabel had never fantasized sexually about being physically bigger than a man, but in truth she wasn’t the most experienced in this area, having gone through college just racking up short relationships with an aspiring and seemingly pot-addicted musician, mostly because they lived on the same hall, and an acting student who had said he was bi-sexual but whom she soon learned was homosexual, or at least would be — he confessed while leaving her for a male stage manager — after his experience with her. Their affair, too, had come about through inertia — they had been at the same cast party and left at the same time, and this, it turned out, was the most they would ever have in common. The Dead End Fob TOA

• From The Nasty Bits: Collected Varietal Cuts, Usable Trim, Scraps, and Bones (2006)

  They like maladjusted teens who listen to Metallica, shave their heads, and then go on killing sprees, or former bed wetters who kill their mothers, then describe how they could still hear Mom's voice, chastising them as they flushed her vocal cords down the food disposal. They thrive on the special little moments in criminal trials when, for instance, the best friend of this month's latest juvenile mass-murderer balks at admitting on the stand that he saw his buddy cry—this just after cheerfully implicating him in the slaughter of ten of his classmates: Lawyer: So, after emptying his weapon, am I to understand that Mr. Sprewell adorned his person with the blood of his victims? Is that correct? Witness: Huh? Lawyer: His face . . . he put blood on his face after killing them? Witness: Oh, yeah. He, like smeared blood on his cheeks . . . like an Indian, you know? Stripes like. He said it looked cool. Lawyer: And later. . . after you say you both went back to the defendant's home to play video games and kill his parents . . . did the defendant at any point cry? Witness: Cry? I don't know . . . I don't know if he like . . . cried. He was . . . you know . . . upset. Me? I'm bored by the lone nut and the sexual psychopath. I don't care to what degree Metallica recordings played a role in young Timmy's transition from honor student to thrill killer. I don't care "who dunnit" . . . or even "why he dunnit," and my tastes in crime fiction reflect that attitude: I'm interested in professional criminals. I'm interested in crimes where you know from the get-go why they did it: because it was their job to do it. As in the case of the mob-style execution of Gambino capo Paul Castellano, shot to death out front of a popular Midtown restaurant, it's the little things I want to know about: Before the killers loaded their weapons and dressed themselves in identical raincoats and hats, before they set out separately from their modest family homes in Staten Island and Queens, did the killers kiss their children, jot down brief shopping lists of groceries to bring back on their return? (One box Cheerios . . . half gallon milk . . . dozen eggs . . . tampons, large . . . two cans tuna, chunk style.) Did their voices tighten at all at the breakfast table when they told their wives that they might be a little late tonight? Did they program the VCR to tape their favorite sitcom? And what sitcom was it?

• From From the Streets to the Sheets: Noire's Urban Erotic Quickies (2007)

  It was a Friday night and there was a line of people outside waiting to get in. The bouncers were very picky about who they let in on weekends, and would send your ass home if they thought you weren’t dressed the right way. I gave a bouncer named Freddy dap and proceeded through the glass door. Though I was technically properly dressed, the normal rules didn’t apply to me. I was a regular at Mochas. Everyone knew Chocolate. It was just after one in the morning so the spot was in full swing. There were beautiful women, single and in groups, scattered around the lounge, and thirsty men trying to pump them full of alcohol. I paused by the bar and scanned the crowd for my partners. It didn’t take long for me to spot them; sitting on a love seat near the DJ booth, trying to charm a group of young ladies out of their panties. These niggaz thought they had game, but they knew who the real Don was. As I made my way across the room all eyes were on me. I nodded to a few of the guys I knew and flashed smiles at some of the bitches I had fucked. A time or two I caught sight of some nameless female that I’d probably slept with but hardly remembered, trying to get my attention, but I acted like I didn’t see them. I didn’t feel like the headache. All I wanted to do was have some drinks with my boys and chill. I had almost made it over to where my friends were sitting when my path was suddenly blocked. The brazen young thing had yellow skin, and wore her hair in a straight weave. I knew her angelic face, but for the life of me couldn’t remember her name. Her ass was plump, but not large. Just enough to where it looked good. She stared at me with her bright green eyes and waited for me to say something. Since I knew that’s what she wanted, I remained silent. “You can’t speak, Chocolate?” Ms. Green Eyes asked. The sound of her sweet voice reminded me of a string quartet. “What’s happening, baby?” I grinned, but was careful not to give her a full smile. Though I would’ve liked nothing more than to take her in the bathroom and slam her pussy, I couldn’t seem too thirsty. I was Chocolate, and like the rest, this bitch would recognize. “Oh, you on it like that? You can fuck me in a park, and then act like you don’t know a bitch?” My groin tingled as my mental Rolodex finally placed her.

• From The Master and Margarita (1966)

  What is your whitefish, your perch! But the snipe, the great snipe, the jack snipe, the woodcock in their season, the quail, the curlew? Cool seltzer fizzing in your throat?! But enough, you are getting distracted, reader! Follow me! . . . At half past ten on the evening when Berlioz died at the Patriarch’s Ponds, only one room was lit upstairs at Griboedov’s, and in it languished twelve writers who had gathered for a meeting and were waiting for Mikhail Alexandrovich. Sitting on chairs, and on tables, and even on the two window-sills in the office of the Massolit executive board, they suffered seriously from the heat. Not a single breath of fresh air came through the open windows. Moscow was releasing the heat accumulated in the asphalt all day, and it was clear that night would bring no relief. The smell of onions came from the basement of the aunt’s house, where the restaurant kitchen was at work, they were all thirsty, they were all nervous and angry. The belletrist Beskudnikov—a quiet, decently dressed man with attentive and at the same time elusive eyes—took out his watch. The hand was crawling towards eleven. Beskudnikov tapped his finger on the face and showed it to the poet Dvubratsky, who was sitting next to him on the table and in boredom dangling his feet shod in yellow shoes with rubber treads. ‘Really, now,’ grumbled Dvubratsky. ‘The laddie must’ve got stuck on the Klyazma,’ came the thick-voiced response of Nastasya Lukinishna Nepremenova, orphan of a Moscow merchant, who had become a writer and wrote stories about sea battles under the pen-name of Bos’n George. ‘Excuse me!’ boldly exclaimed Zagrivov, an author of popular sketches, ‘but I personally would prefer a spot of tea on the balcony to stewing in here. The meeting was set for ten o’clock, wasn’t it?’ ‘It’s nice now on the Klyazma,’ Bos’n George needled those present, knowing that Perelygino on the Klyazma, the country colony for writers, was everybody’s sore spot. ‘There’s nightingales singing already. I always work better in the country, especially in spring.’ ‘It’s the third year I’ve paid in so as to send my wife with goitre to this paradise, but there’s nothing to be spied amidst the waves,’ the novelist Ieronym Poprikhin said venomously and bitterly. ‘Some are lucky and some aren’t,’ the critic Ababkov droned from the window-sill. Bos’n George’s little eyes lit up with glee, and she said, softening her contralto: ‘We mustn’t be envious, comrades.

• From The History of Christianity: From the Disciples to the Dawn of the Reformation (2012)

  136 ygolotsirhC—licnuoC dna sisirC lacigoloehT :91 erutceL spirit of Jesus within the community is understood as the spirit of the living God. But to what degree and how immediately did the mutual shaping of theology and piety occur among Christians during these centuries? • There is some slight evidence that others than the experts were passionately involved in the disputes. Gregory of Nazianzus suggests that theology was argued on o the street and at parties. Speaking of the disputants, he says, “every marketplace must buzz with their talking, and every dinner party be worried to death with silly talk and boredom.” Gregory of Nyssa notes: “Everywhere … people would stop o you and discourse at random about the Trinity. If you asked something of a moneychanger, he would begin discussing the question of the Begotten and Unbegotten. If you questioned a baker about the price of bread, he would answer that the Father is greater and the Son is subordinate to him….” Cyril of Alexandria rallied monks to exercise pressure in o support of his theological positions through marches in the streets and even riots. For the most part, however, the everyday Christian existence o of the nonspecialists was probably little affected. The life of worship and popular piety sketched earlier undoubtedly continued to develop, reflected more in architecture, art, and sermons than in polemical treatises. • Such reminders of the historian’s captivity to available sources are valuable as a caution against reducing history to a “history of ideas.” Nevertheless, these disputes, precisely because they had a permanent effect on subsequent developments, deserve the attention they receive. Origin of the Christological Controversies • The origin of the Christological controversies can be traced in part to the paradoxical character of the earliest Christian experience—as witnessed by the New Testament. • The language concerning Jesus in the New Testament combines two convictions with equal force and could give rise to sharply different emphases. The humanity of Jesus—his full participation in the human o condition—is repeatedly asserted. The Gospel accounts render Jesus realistically in the setting of 1st-century Judaism. Apart from his miracles, Jesus appears like other humans: He is born, eats and drinks, associates with others, and dies a mortal death. The Letter to the Hebrews similarly insists that Christ is fully human and tested in every way that other humans are tested (Heb. 4:15). The Letter to the Hebrews asserts emphatically that Jesus is fully human, but at the same time, his divinity is also vigorously asserted elsewhere in the New Testament. 137 .kcotsknihT/otohpkcotSi ©

• From The Master and Margarita (1966)

  Magicians, sorcerers, wizards, these flocks of pilgrims! . . . Fanatics, fanatics! . . . Just take this messiah 5 they suddenly started expecting this year! Every moment you think you’re about to witness the most unpleasant bloodshed . . . The shifting of troops all the time, reading denunciations and calumnies, half of which, moreover, are written against yourself! You must agree, it’s boring. Oh, if it weren’t for the imperial service!’ ‘Yes, the feasts are hard here,’ agreed the guest. ‘I wish with all my heart that they should be over soon,’ Pilate added energetically. ‘I will finally have the possibility of going back to Caesarea. Believe me, this delirious construction of Herod’s’—the procurator waved his arm along the colonnade, to make clear that he was speaking of the palace—‘positively drives me out of my mind! I cannot spend my nights in it. The world has never known a stranger architecture! . . . Well, but let’s get back to business. First of all, this cursed Bar-Rabban—you’re not worried about him?’ And here the guest sent his peculiar glance at the procurator’s cheek. But the latter, frowning squeamishly, gazed into the distance with bored eyes, contemplating the part of the city that lay at his feet and was fading into the twilight. The guest’s eyes also faded, and his eyelids lowered. ‘It may be supposed that Bar has now become as harmless as a lamb,’ the guest began to say, and wrinkles appeared on his round face. ‘It would be awkward for him to rebel now.’ ‘Too famous?’ Pilate asked with a smirk. ‘The procurator has subtly understood the problem, as always.’ ‘But in any case,’ the procurator observed with concern, and the thin, long finger with the black stone of its ring was raised, ‘there must be . . .’ ‘Oh, the procurator can be certain that as long as I am in Judea, Bar will not take a step without having someone on his heels.’ ‘Now I am at peace—as I always am, incidentally, when you are here.’ ‘The procurator is too kind!’ ‘And now I ask you to tell me about the execution,’ said the procurator. ‘What precisely interests the procurator?’ ‘Were there any attempts on the part of the crowd to display rebelliousness? That is the main thing, of course.’ ‘None,’ replied the guest. ‘Very good. Did you personally establish that death took place?’ ‘The procurator may be certain of it.’ ‘And tell me . . . were they given the drink before being hung on the posts?’ 6 ‘Yes. But he,’ here the guest closed his eyes, ‘refused to drink it.’ ‘Who, precisely?’ asked Pilate. ‘Forgive me, Hegemon!’ the guest exclaimed. ‘Did I not name him?

• From The History of Christianity: From the Disciples to the Dawn of the Reformation (2012)

  136 Lecture 19: Theological Crisis and Council—Christology spirit of Jesus within the community is understood as the spirit of the living God. But to what degree and how immediately did the mutual shaping of theology and piety occur among Christians during these centuries? • There is some slight evidence that others than the experts were passionately involved in the disputes. o Gregory of Nazianzus suggests that theology was argued on the street and at parties. Speaking of the disputants, he says, “every marketplace must buzz with their talking, and every dinner party be worried to death with silly talk and boredom.” o Gregory of Nyssa notes: “Everywhere … people would stop you and discourse at random about the Trinity. If you asked something of a moneychanger, he would begin discussing the question of the Begotten and Unbegotten. If you questioned a baker about the price of bread, he would answer that the Father is greater and the Son is subordinate to him….” o Cyril of Alexandria rallied monks to exercise pressure in support of his theological positions through marches in the streets and even riots. o For the most part, however, the everyday Christian existence of the nonspecialists was probably little affected. The life of worship and popular piety sketched earlier undoubtedly continued to develop, reflected more in architecture, art, and sermons than in polemical treatises. • Such reminders of the historian’s captivity to available sources are valuable as a caution against reducing history to a “history of ideas.” Nevertheless, these disputes, precisely because they had a permanent effect on subsequent developments, deserve the attention they receive. 137 Origin of the Christological Controversies • The origin of the Christological controversies can be traced in part to the paradoxical character of the earliest Christian experience—as witnessed by the New Testament. • The language concerning Jesus in the New Testament combines two convictions with equal force and could give rise to sharply different emphases. o The humanity of Jesus—his full participation in the human condition—is repeatedly asserted. The Gospel accounts render Jesus realistically in the setting of 1 st-century Judaism. Apart from his miracles, Jesus appears like other humans: He is born, eats and drinks, associates with others, and dies a mortal death. The Letter to the Hebrews similarly insists that Christ is fully human and tested in every way that other humans are tested (Heb. 4:15). The Letter to the Hebrews asserts emphatically that Jesus is fully human, but at the same time, his divinity is also vigorously asserted elsewhere in the New Testament. © iStockphoto/Thinkstock.

• From The Master and Margarita (1966)

  Finally the century under the command of Mark Ratslayer arrived. It went stretched out in files along the sides of the road, and between these files, convoyed by the secret guard, the three condemned men rode in a cart, white boards hanging around their necks with ‘robber and rebel’ written on each of them in two languages—Aramaic and Greek. The cart with the condemned men was followed by others laden with freshly hewn posts with crosspieces, ropes, shovels, buckets and axes. Six executioners rode in these carts. They were followed on horseback by the centurion Mark, the chief of the temple guard of Yershalaim, and that same hooded man with whom Pilate had had a momentary meeting in a darkened room of the palace. A file of soldiers brought up the rear of the procession, and behind it walked about two thousand of the curious, undaunted by the infernal heat and wishing to be present at the interesting spectacle. The curious from the city were now joined by the curious from among the pilgrims, who were admitted without hindrance to the tail of the procession. Under the shrill cries of the heralds who accompanied the column and cried aloud what Pilate had cried out at around noon, the procession drew itself up Bald Mountain. The ala admitted everyone to the second level, but the second century let only those connected with the execution go further up, and then, manoeuvring quickly, spread the crowd around the entire hill, so that people found themselves between the cordons of infantry above and cavalry below. Now they could watch the execution through the sparse line of the infantry. And so, more than three hours had gone by since the procession climbed the mountain, and the sun was already going down over Bald Mountain, but the heat was still unbearable, and the soldiers in both cordons suffered from it, grew weary with boredom, and cursed the three robbers in their hearts, sincerely wishing them the speediest death. The little commander of the ala, his brow moist and the back of his white shirt dark with sweat, having placed himself at the foot of the hill by the open passage, went over to the leather bucket of the first squad every now and then, scooped handfuls of water from it, drank and wetted his turban. Somewhat relieved by that, he would step away and again begin pacing back and forth on the dusty road leading to the top. His long sword slapped against his laced leather boot. The commander wished to give his cavalrymen an example of endurance, but, pitying his soldiers, he allowed them to stick their spears pyramid-like in the ground and throw their white cloaks over them. Under these tents, the Syrians hid from the merciless sun.

• From Tropic of Cancer (1934)

  I will show you a cheaper place.” And before you have time to think about it he will whisk you away and deposit you before another show window where there are the same ties and shirts and collar buttons—maybe it’s the very same store! but you don’t know the difference. When Kepi hears that you want to buy something his soul becomes animated. He will ask you so many questions and drag you to so many places that you are bound to get thirsty and ask him to have a drink, whereupon you will discover to your amazement that you are again standing in a tabac— maybe the same tabac!—and Kepi is saying again in that small unctuous voice: “Will you please be so good as to buy me a little cheroot?” No matter what you propose doing, even if it’s only to walk around the corner, Kepi will economize for you. Kepi will show you the shortest way, the cheapest place, the biggest dish, because whatever you have to do you must pass a tabac, and whether there is a revolution or a lockout or a quarantine Kepi must be at the Moulin Rouge or the Olympia or the Ange Rouge when the music strikes up. The other day he brought a book for me to read. It was about a famous suit between a holy man and the editor of an Indian paper. The editor, it seems had openly accused the holy man of leading a scandalous life; he went further, and accused the holy man of being diseased. Kepi says it must have been the great French pox, but Nanantatee avers that it was the Japanese clap. For Nanantatee everything has to be a little exaggerated. At any rate, says Nanantatee cheerily: “You will please tell me what it says, Endree. I can’t read the book—it hurts my arm.” Then, by way of encouraging me—“it is a fine book about the fucking, Endree. Kepi has brought it for you. He thinks about nothing but the girls. So many girls he fucks—just like Krishna. We don’t believe in that business, Endree. ...” A little later he takes me upstairs to the attic which is loaded down with tin cans and crap from India wrapped in burlap and firecracker paper. “Here is where I bring the girls,” he says. And then rather wistfully: “I am not a very good fucker, Endree. I don’t screw the girls any more. I hold them in my arms and I say the words. I like only to say the words now.” It isn’t necessary to listen any further: I know that he is going to tell me about his arm. I can see him lying there with that broken hinge dangling from the side of the bed. But to my surprise he adds: “I am no good for the fucking, Endree. I never was a very good fucker. My brother, he is good!

• From The Girls (2016)

  “Think what?” she said. “Shouldn’t Evie go check out that carnival?” Frank said. “That centennial thing? Keep busy?” My mother took up this pet notion like it was a flash of brilliance. “I don’t know if it’s the centennial, exactly—” she said. “Well, town party,” Frank broke in, “centennial, whatever it is.” “But it’s a good idea,” she said. “You’ll have a great time.” I could feel Frank watching me. “Yeah,” I said, “sure.” “Nice to see you two having a good talk,” my mother added shyly. I made a face, collecting my mug and crackers, but my mother didn’t notice: she had already bent to kiss Frank. Her robe falling open so I saw a triangle of shadowy, sun-spotted chest and had to look away. — The town was celebrating 110 years, after all, not 100, the awkward number setting the tone for the meager affair. To even call it a carnival seemed overly generous, though most of the town was there. There had been a box social in the park and a play about the town’s founding in the high school amphitheater, the student council members sweating in theater department costumes. They’d closed the road to street traffic, so I found myself in a bobbing press of people, pushing and grabbing at the promise of leisure and fun. Husbands whose faces were tight with aggrieved duty, flanked by kids and wives who needed stuffed animals. Who needed pale, sour lemonade and hot dogs and grilled corn. All the proof of a good time. The river was already clotted with litter, the slow drift of popcorn bags and beer cans and paper fans. My mother had been impressed by Frank’s miraculous ability to get me to leave the house. Just as Frank wanted her to be. So she could imagine the neat way he’d slot into a father shape. I was having exactly as much fun as I’d expected to have. I ate a snow cone, the paper cup weakening until the syrup leaked out over my hands. I threw the rest away, but my hands scudded with the residue, even after I wiped them on my shorts. I moved among the crowd, in and out of shade. I saw kids I knew, but they were the background fill from school, no one I had ever spent

• From Tropic of Cancer (1934)

  Picking up a book in the red bedroom and the cane chair uncomfortable; tired of sitting on my ass all day long, tired of red wallpaper, tired of seeing so many people jabbering away about nothing. The red bedroom and the trunk always open; her gowns lying about in a delirium of disorder. The red bedroom with my galoshes and canes, the notebooks I never touched, the manuscripts lying cold and dead. Paris! Meaning the Café Select, the Dôme, the Flea Market, the American Express. Paris! Meaning Borowski’s canes, Borowski’s hats, Borowski’s gouaches , Borowski’s prehistoric fish—and prehistoric jokes. In that Paris of ‘28 only one night stands out in my memory—the night before sailing for America. A rare night, with Borowski slightly pickled and a little disgusted with me because I’m dancing with every slut in the place. But we’re leaving in the morning! That’s what I tell every cunt I grab hold of —leaving in the morning! That’s what I’m telling the blonde with agate-colored eyes. And while I’m telling her she takes my hand and squeezes it between her legs. In the lavatory I stand before the bowl with a tremendous erection; it seems light and heavy at the same time, like a piece of lead with wings on it. And while I’m standing there like that two cunts sail in—Americans. I greet them cordially, prick in hand. They give me a wink and pass on. In the vestibule, as I’m buttoning my fly, I notice one of them waiting for her friend to come out of the can. The music is still playing and maybe Mona’ll be coming to fetch me, or Borowski with his gold-knobbed cane, but I’m in her arms now and she has hold of me and I don’t care who comes or what happens. We wriggle into the cabinet and there I stand her up, slap up against the wall, and I try to get it into her but it won’t work and so we sit down on the seat and try it that way but it won’t work either. No matter how we try it it won’t work. And all the while she’s got hold of my prick, she’s clutching it like a lifesaver, but it’s no use, we’re too hot, too eager. The music is still playing and so we waltz out of the cabinet into the vestibule again and as we’re dancing there in the shithouse I come all over her beautiful gown and she’s sore as hell about it. I stumble back to the table and there’s Borowski with his ruddy face and Mona with her disapproving eye. And Borowski says “Let’s all go to Brussels tomorrow,” and we agree, and when we get back to the hotel I vomit all over the place, in the bed, in the washbowl, over the suits and gowns and the galoshes and canes and the notebooks I never touched and the manuscripts cold and dead. A few months later.

• From Tropic of Cancer (1934)

  With the exception of Renaud who sat beside me, the others have faded out of my memory; they belonged to that category of colorless individuals who make up the world of engineers, architects, dentists, pharmacists, teachers, etc. There was nothing to distinguish them from the clods whom they would later wipe their boots on. They were zeros in every sense of the word, ciphers who form the nucleus of a respectable and lamentable citizenry. They ate with their heads down and were always the first to clamor for a second helping. They slept soundly and never complained; they were neither gay nor miserable. The indifferent ones whom Dante consigned to the vestibule of Hell. The upper-crusters. It was the custom after dinner to go immediately to town, unless one was on duty in the dormitories. In the center of town were the cafés—huge, dreary halls where the somnolent merchants of Dijon gathered to play cards and listen to the music. It was warm in the cafés, that is the best I can say for them. The seats were fairly comfortable, too. And there were always a few whores about who, for a glass of beer or a cup of coffee, would sit and chew the fat with you. The music, on the other hand, was atrocious. Such music! On a winter’s night, in a dirty hole like Dijon, nothing can be more harassing, more nerve-racking, than the sound of a French orchestra. Particularly one of those lugubrious female orchestras with everything coming in squeaks and farts, with a dry, algebraic rhythm and the hygienic consistency of toothpaste. A wheezing and scraping performed at so many francs the hour—and the devil take the hindmost! The melancholy of it! As if old Euclid had stood up on his hind legs and swallowed prussic acid. The whole realm of Idea so thoroughly exploited by the reason that there is nothing left of which to make music except the empty slats of the accordion, through which the wind whistles and tears the ether to tatters. However, to speak of music in connection with this outpost is like dreaming of champagne when you are in the death cell. Music was the least of my worries. I didn’t even think of cunt, so dismal, so chill, so barren, so gray was it all. On the way home the first night I noticed on the door of a café an inscription from the Gargantua. Inside the café it was like a morgue. However, forward! I had plenty of time on my hands and not a sou to spend. Two or three hours of conversational lessons a day, and that was all.

• From Tropic of Cancer (1934)

  He was like an engraving by Albrecht Dürer—a composite of all the dour, sour, morose, bitter, unfortunate, unlucky and introspective devils who compose the pantheon of Germany’s medieval knights. A Jew, no doubt. At any rate, he was killed in an automobile accident shortly after my arrival, a circumstance which left me twenty-three francs to the good. With the exception of Renaud who sat beside me, the others have faded out of my memory; they belonged to that category of colorless individuals who make up the world of engineers, architects, dentists, pharmacists, teachers, etc. There was nothing to distinguish them from the clods whom they would later wipe their boots on. They were zeros in every sense of the word, ciphers who form the nucleus of a respectable and lamentable citizenry. They ate with their heads down and were always the first to clamor for a second helping. They slept soundly and never complained; they were neither gay nor miserable. The indifferent ones whom Dante consigned to the vestibule of Hell. The upper-crusters. It was the custom after dinner to go immediately to town, unless one was on duty in the dormitories. In the center of town were the cafés—huge, dreary halls where the somnolent merchants of Dijon gathered to play cards and listen to the music. It was warm in the cafés, that is the best I can say for them. The seats were fairly comfortable, too. And there were always a few whores about who, for a glass of beer or a cup of coffee, would sit and chew the fat with you. The music, on the other hand, was atrocious. Such music! On a winter’s night, in a dirty hole like Dijon, nothing can be more harassing, more nerve-racking, than the sound of a French orchestra. Particularly one of those lugubrious female orchestras with everything coming in squeaks and farts, with a dry, algebraic rhythm and the hygienic consistency of toothpaste. A wheezing and scraping performed at so many francs the hour—and the devil take the hindmost! The melancholy of it! As if old Euclid had stood up on his hind legs and swallowed prussic acid. The whole realm of Idea so thoroughly exploited by the reason that there is nothing left of which to make music except the empty slats of the accordion, through which the wind whistles and tears the ether to tatters. However, to speak of music in connection with this outpost is like dreaming of champagne when you are in the death cell. Music was the least of my worries. I didn’t even think of cunt, so dismal, so chill, so barren, so gray was it all. On the way home the first night I noticed on the door of a café an inscription from the Gargantua . Inside the café it was like a morgue. However, forward! I had plenty of time on my hands and not a sou to spend.

• From Sense and Sensibility (1811)

  “For my own part,” said he, “I am excessively fond of a cottage; there is always so much comfort, so much elegance about them. And I protest, if I had any money to spare, I should buy a little land and build one myself, within a short distance of London, where I might drive myself down at any time, and collect a few friends about me, and be happy. I advise every body who is going to build, to build a cottage. My friend Lord Courtland came to me the other day on purpose to ask my advice, and laid before me three different plans of Bonomi’s. I was to decide on the best of them. ‘My dear Courtland,’ said I, immediately throwing them all into the fire, ‘do not adopt either of them, but by all means build a cottage.’ And that I fancy, will be the end of it. “Some people imagine that there can be no accommodations, no space in a cottage; but this is all a mistake. I was last month at my friend Elliott’s, near Dartford. Lady Elliott wished to give a dance. ‘But how can it be done?’ said she; ‘my dear Ferrars, do tell me how it is to be managed. There is not a room in this cottage that will hold ten couple, and where can the supper be?’ _I_ immediately saw that there could be no difficulty in it, so I said, ‘My dear Lady Elliott, do not be uneasy. The dining parlour will admit eighteen couple with ease; card-tables may be placed in the drawing-room; the library may be open for tea and other refreshments; and let the supper be set out in the saloon.’ Lady Elliott was delighted with the thought. We measured the dining-room, and found it would hold exactly eighteen couple, and the affair was arranged precisely after my plan. So that, in fact, you see, if people do but know how to set about it, every comfort may be as well enjoyed in a cottage as in the most spacious dwelling.” Elinor agreed to it all, for she did not think he deserved the compliment of rational opposition. As John Dashwood had no more pleasure in music than his eldest sister, his mind was equally at liberty to fix on any thing else; and a thought struck him during the evening, which he communicated to his wife, for her approbation, when they got home. The consideration of Mrs. Dennison’s mistake, in supposing his sisters their guests, had suggested the propriety of their being really invited to become such, while Mrs. Jennings’s engagements kept her from home. The expense would be nothing, the inconvenience not more; and it was altogether an attention which the delicacy of his conscience pointed out to be requisite to its complete enfranchisement from his promise to his father. Fanny was startled at the proposal.

• From Tropic of Cancer (1934)

  I have adjusted myself so well to his monologues that without interrupting my own reveries I make whatever comment is required automatically, the moment I hear his voice die out. It is a duet, and like most duets moreover in that one listens attentively only for the signal which announces the advent of one’s own voice. As it is his night off, and as I have promised to keep him company, I have already dulled myself to his queries. I know that before the evening is over I shall be thoroughly exhausted; if I am lucky, that is, if I can worm a few francs out of him on some pretext or other, I will duck him the moment he goes to the toilet. But he knows my propensity for slipping away, and, instead of being insulted, he simply provides against the possibility by guarding his sous. If I ask him for money to buy cigarettes he insists on going with me to purchase them. He will not be left alone, not for a second. Even when he has succeeded in grabbing off a woman, even then he is terrified to be left alone with her. If it were possible he would have me sit in the room while he puts on the performance. It would be like asking me to wait while he took a shave. On his night off Van Norden generally manages to have at least fifty francs in his pocket, a circumstance which does not prevent him from making a touch whenever he encounters a prospect. “Hello,” he says, “give me twenty francs... I need it.” He has a way of looking panic-stricken at the same time. And if he meets with a rebuff he becomes insulting. “Well, you can buy a drink at least.” And when he gets his drink he says more graciously—“Listen give me five francs then... give me two francs” We go from bar to bar looking for a little excitement and always accumulating a few more francs. At the Coupole we stumble into a drunk from the newspaper. One of the upstairs guys. There’s just been an accident at the office, he informs us. One of the proofreaders fell down the elevator shaft. Not expected to live. At first Van Norden is shocked, deeply shocked. But when he learns that it was Peckover, the Englishman, he looks relieved. “The poor bastard,” he says, “he’s better off dead than alive. He just got his false teeth the other day too. ...” The allusion to the false teeth moves the man upstairs to tears.

• From Comrade Loves of the Samurai (1972)

  One rainy evening Shyume called his servant, Kuzayemon, because he felt lonely and very bored after his day's service, and said to him: 'I was born of a family of samurai, and I have not yet killed a living man with my sword. Yet I must have practice in case of a battle. I cannot be a good warrior if I have no exercise in the art of killing. Kuzayemon, I wish to try to kill a living man this evening,' His servant rebuked him: 'Dear master, you are an excellent swordsman, and very expert with your weapon. You are not inferior to any of the courtiers of this company. You have nothing to fear in this matter, nothing at all. Heaven will punish you if you kill a living man without sufficient reason, merely from caprice. I beg you to wait for a more serious occasion to exercise your skill.' Shyume explained to him: 'I do not wish to kill an honourable man, dear Kuzayemon. Over there by the Street gutter there is a beggar, who seems entirely wretched. He cannot love his life. Ask him to give me his life, after I have satisfied all his desires.' The servant answered: 'Even in that miserable State he will not wish to die.'Yet he went up to the beggar and said: 'Dear friend, I have a favour to beg of you. This human life is, as you know, but a vain thing. It is also as uncertain as one of this evening's showers. We cannot know how long it may last and when it will cease. You have come to a truly lamentable condition, and I think that life does not offer you much pleasure. My young master has commanded me to ask if you would be willing to give him your life to die by his sword, because he wishes to practise his weapons upon a living person. But, before killing you, he will allow you to continue for thirty days, during which time he will cause you to live splendidly. He will engage a priest to perform a fine funeral for you also. What do you think of this?' The beggar answered: 'I know that I shall not live until next Spring, and every night I suffer because of the cold air. I have no friends, and none will care what has become of me. I am quite ready to be killed by your master.' The servant then led him to Shyume, supporting his weak and trembling body with his hands, and told of the success of his mission. They first made the man take a bath to wash himself; then they gave him clean clothes and a servant's room. They fed him for ten days on the most delicious dishes, according to his desire. On the appointed evening, when it was already late, he was led to a secluded part of Shyume's garden.

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  Congregations were affected much as congregations are to-day. Caesar of Heisterbach, who himself was a preacher, tells of a congregation that went to sleep and snored during a sermon. The preacher, suddenly turning from the line of his discourse, exclaimed: "Hear, my brethren, I will tell you something new and strange. There was once a king called Artus." The sleepers awoke and the preacher continued, "See, brethren, when I spoke about God, you slept, but when I began to tell a trivial story, you pricked up your ears to hear."2066 Caesar was himself present on this occasion. The accounts of contemporaries leave no room to doubt that extraordinary impressions were made upon great audiences.2067 The sermons that have come down to us are almost invariably based upon a text or paragraph of Scripture and are full of biblical instruction, doctrinal inference, and moral application. It was well understood that the personality of the preacher has much to do with the effectiveness of a discourse. Although the people along the Rhine did not understand the language of St. Bernard, they were moved to the very depths by his sermons. When his language was interpreted, they lost their power. Four treatises have come down to us from this period on homiletics and the pulpit, by Guibert of Nogent, Alanus ab Insulis, Humbert de Romanis, and Hugo de St. Cher.2068 Their counsels do not vary much from the counsels given by writers on these subjects to-day. Guibert, in his What Order a Sermon should Follow,2069 insists upon the priest keeping up his studies, preparing his sermons with prayer, and cultivating the habit of turning everything he sees into a symbol of religious truth. He sets forth the different motives by which preachers were actuated, from a desire of display by ventriloquism to an honest purpose to instruct and make plain the Scriptures. In his Art of Preaching,2070 Alanus counsels preachers to court the good-will of their audiences by cultivating humility of manner and by setting forth useful instruction. He must so impress them that they will think not of who is talking, but of what is being talked about. He advises the use of quotations from Gentile authors, following Paul’s example. After giving other counsels, Alanus in forty-seven chapters presents illustrations of the treatment of different themes, such as the contempt of the world, luxury, gluttony, godly sorrow, joy, patience, faith. He then furnishes specimens of exhortations to different classes of hearers: princes, lawyers, monks, the married, widows, virgins, the somnolent. Humbert de Romanis, general of the order of the Dominicans, d. 1277, in a much more elaborate work,2071 pronounced preaching the most excellent of a monk’s occupations and set it above the liturgical service which, being in Latin, the people did not understand. Preaching is even better than the mass, for Christ celebrated the mass only once, but was constantly engaged in preaching.

• From I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings (1969)

  17 Weekdays revolved on a sameness wheel. They turned into themselves so steadily and inevitably that each seemed to be the original of yesterday's rough draft. Saturdays, however, always broke the mold and dared to be different. Farmers trekked into town with their children and wives streaming around them. Their board-stiff khaki pants and shirts revealed the painstaking care of a dutiful daughter or wife. They often stopped at the Store to get change for bills so they could give out jangling coins to their children, who shook with their eagerness to get to town. The young kids openly resented their parents' dawdling in the Store and Uncle Willie would call them in and spread among them bits of sweet peanut patties that had been broken in shipping. They gobbled down the candies and were out again, kicking up the powdery dust in the road and worrying if there was going to be time to get to town after all. Bailey played mumbledypeg with the older boys around the chinaberry tree, and Momma and Uncle Willie listened to the farmers' latest news of the country. I thought of myself as hanging in the Store, a mote imprisoned on a shaft of sunlight. Pushed and pulled by the slightest shift of air, but never falling free into the tempting darkness. In the warm months, morning began with a quick wash in unheated well water. The suds were dashed on a plot of ground beside the kitchen door. It was called the bait garden (Bailey raised worms). After prayers, breakfast in summer was usually dry cereal and fresh milk Then to our chores (which on Saturday included weekday jobs)—scrubbing the floors, raking the yards, polishing our shoes for Sunday (Uncle Willie's had to be shined with a biscuit) and attending to the customers who came breathlessly, also in their Saturday hurry. Looking through the years, I marvel that Saturday was my favorite day in the week. What pleasures could have been squeezed between the fan folds of unending tasks? Children's talent to endure stems from their ignorance of alternatives. After our retreat from St. Louis, Momma gave us a weekly allowance. Since she seldom dealt with money, other than to take it in and to tithe to the church, I supposed that the weekly ten cents was to tell us that even she realized that a change had come over us, and that our new unfamiliarity caused her to treat us with a strangeness. I usually gave my money to Bailey, who went to the movies nearly every Saturday. He brought back Street and Smith cowboy books for me. One Saturday Bailey was late coming back from the Ryeal-toh. Momma had begun heating water for the Saturday-night baths, and all the evening chores were done. Uncle Willie sat in the twilight on the front porch mumbling or maybe singing, and smoking a ready-made. It was quite late.