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 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 I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings (1969)

  Because of the kinds of news we filched from those hushed conversations, I was convinced that whenever Reverend Thomas came and Momma sent us to the back room they were going to discuss whitefolks and “doing it.” Two subjects about which I was very dim. On Sunday mornings Momma served a breakfast that was geared to hold us quiet from 9:30 A.M . to 3 P.M. She fried thick pink slabs of home-cured ham and poured the grease over sliced red tomatoes. Eggs over easy, fried potatoes and onions, yellow hominy and crisp perch fried so hard we would pop them in our mouths and chew bones, fins and all. Her cathead biscuits were at least three inches in diameter and two inches thick. The trick to eating catheads was to get the butter on them before they got cold—then they were delicious. When, unluckily they were allowed to get cold, they tended to a gooeyness, not unlike a wad of tired gum . We were able to reaffirm our findings on the catheads each Sunday that Reverend Thomas spent with us. Naturally enough, he was asked to bless the table. We would all stand; my uncle, leaning his walking stick against the wall, would lean his weight on the table. Then Reverend Thomas would begin. “Blessed Father, we thank you this morning …” and on and on and on. I'd stop listening after a while until Bailey kicked me and then I cracked my lids to see what had promised to be a meal that would make any Sunday proud. But as the Reverend droned on and on and on to a God who I thought must be bored to hear the same things over and over again, I saw that the ham grease had turned white on the tomatoes. The eggs had withdrawn from the edge of the platter to bunch in the center like children left out in the cold. And the catheads had sat down on themselves with the conclusiveness of a fat woman sitting in an easy chair. And still he talked on. When he finally stopped, our appetites were gone, but he feasted on the cold food with a non-talking but still noisy relish. In the Christian Methodist Episcopal Church the children's section was on the right, cater-cornered from the pew that held those ominous women called the Mothers of the Church. In the young people's section the benches were placed close together, and when a child's legs no longer comfortably fitted in the narrow space, it was an indication to the elders that that person could now move into the intermediate area (center church). Bailey and I were allowed to sit with the other children only when there were informal meetings, church socials or the like. But on the Sundays when Reverend Thomas preached, it was ordained that we occupy the first row, called the mourners' bench.

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

  Strangely, as bored as I was with clichés, her inflection gave them something new, and set me thinking for a little while at least. Later when asked how I got my job, I was never able to say exactly. I only knew that one day which was tiresomely like all the others before it, I sat in the Railway office, ostensibly waiting to be interviewed. The receptionist called me to her desk and shuffled a bundle of papers to me. They were job application forms. She said they had to be filled in triplicate. I had little time to wonder if I had won or not, for the standard questions reminded me of the necessity for dexterous lying. How old was I? List my previous jobs, starting from the last held and go backward to the first. How much money did I earn, and why did I leave the position? Give two references (not relatives). Sitting at a side table my mind and I wove a cat's ladder of near truths and total lies. I kept my face blank (an old art) and wrote quickly the fable of Marguerite Johnson, aged nineteen, former companion and driver for Mrs. Annie Henderson (a White Lady) in Stamps, Arkansas. I was given blood tests, aptitude tests, physical coordination tests, and Rorschachs, then on a blissful day I was hired as the first Negro on the San Francisco streetcars. Mother gave me the money to have my blue serge suit tailored, and I learned to fill out work cards, operate the money changer and punch transfers. The time crowded together and at an End of Days I was swinging on the back of the rackety trolley, smiling sweetly and persuading my charges to “step forward in the car, please.” For one whole semester the streetcars and I shimmied up and scooted down the sheer hills of San Francisco. I lost some of my need for the Black ghetto's shielding-sponge quality, as I clanged and cleared my way down Market Street, with its honky-tonk homes for homeless sailors, past the quiet retreat of Golden Gate Park and along closed undwelled-in-looking dwellings of the Sunset District. My work shifts were split so haphazardly that it was easy to believe that my superiors had chosen them maliciously. Upon mentioning my suspicions to Mother, she said, “Don't worry about it. You ask for what you want, and you pay for what you get. And I'm going to show you that it ain't no trouble when you pack double.” She stayed awake to drive me out to the car barn at four thirty in the mornings, or to pick me up when I was relieved just before dawn. Her awareness of life's perils convinced her that while I would be safe on the public conveyances, she “wasn't about to trust a taxi driver with her baby.” When the spring classes began, I resumed my commitment with formal education.

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

  Because of the kinds of news we filched from those hushed conversations, I was convinced that whenever Reverend Thomas came and Momma sent us to the back room they were going to discuss whitefolks and “doing it.” Two subjects about which I was very dim. On Sunday mornings Momma served a breakfast that was geared to hold us quiet from 9:30 A.M. to 3 P.M. She fried thick pink slabs of home-cured ham and poured the grease over sliced red tomatoes. Eggs over easy, fried potatoes and onions, yellow hominy and crisp perch fried so hard we would pop them in our mouths and chew bones, fins and all. Her cathead biscuits were at least three inches in diameter and two inches thick. The trick to eating catheads was to get the butter on them before they got cold—then they were delicious. When, unluckily they were allowed to get cold, they tended to a gooeyness, not unlike a wad of tired gum. We were able to reaffirm our findings on the catheads each Sunday that Reverend Thomas spent with us. Naturally enough, he was asked to bless the table. We would all stand; my uncle, leaning his walking stick against the wall, would lean his weight on the table. Then Reverend Thomas would begin. “Blessed Father, we thank you this morning ...” and on and on and on. I'd stop listening after a while until Bailey kicked me and then I cracked my lids to see what had promised to be a meal that would make any Sunday proud. But as the Reverend droned on and on and on to a God who I thought must be bored to hear the same things over and over again, I saw that the ham grease had turned white on the tomatoes. The eggs had withdrawn from the edge of the platter to bunch in the center like children left out in the cold. And the catheads had sat down on themselves with the conclusiveness of a fat woman sitting in an easy chair. And still he talked on. When he finally stopped, our appetites were gone, but he feasted on the cold food with a non-talking but still noisy relish. In the Christian Methodist Episcopal Church the children's section was on the right, cater-cornered from the pew that held those ominous women called the Mothers of the Church. In the young people's section the benches were placed close together, and when a child's legs no longer comfortably fitted in the narrow space, it was an indication to the elders that that person could now move into the intermediate area (center church). Bailey and I were allowed to sit with the other children only when there were informal meetings, church socials or the like. But on the Sundays when Reverend Thomas preached, it was ordained that we occupy the first row, called the mourners' bench.

• From The Pisces (2018)

  “Why did you go out with him if he was gross?” clucked Chickenhorse. “I didn’t know he was gross beforehand,” I said. “It was an Internet date.” “And the other one?” asked Dr. Jude. “Well, that’s the one that’s the problem. He wasn’t gross. But he seems to have rejected me after. So now I’m all spun out. It’s not like I felt with Jamie. But it’s pretty bad.” “Mmmm,” said Dr. Jude, sipping her tea. “What were you hoping to get out of the date exactly?” I noticed that she had accumulated multiple strands of Tibetan beaded bracelets on her left hand. I wondered how many she would have to acquire until she reached enlightenment. “I don’t know,” I said. “I hadn’t really thought about it. I guess to have some fun. Casual fun, you know?” “It doesn’t sound like you are having much fun,” said Sara, offering me a banana chip. I declined it. But she was right. “Well, maybe I don’t like fun.” “Of course you like fun,” she said. “Everyone does! You just don’t know what’s actually fun for you yet. I’ve had to try out a lot of activities until I found my thing. The heart-opening workshop was just okay. But now I’ve started improv classes and I am really loving it. It’s like my inner child is finally coming out to play.” I cringed. Was there anything worse than improv? Maybe open mic nights. “I also enjoy essential oils,” she continued. “It’s a form of self-care. Every night I give myself a little rubdown with a homemade blend—rose, bergamot, and a drop of frankincense—on my neck and shoulders.” And probably your feet too, I thought. “I like to take myself out on artist dates,” said Brianne, her face unmoving. “Just me. I will go to a museum or the movies, get inspired and really connect with myself one-on-one in a creative setting. Afterwards I will take myself out for a good dinner and also dessert.” This seemed fucking annoying. I did not want to do any more connecting with myself. In fact I wanted to do less. “I guess I could do that,” I said. “I dare you,” said Sara. “I dare you to take yourself out on a date!” 24.I left therapy and saw that Claire had called. “Can you meet me at Pain Quotidien?” she asked. “I’m in hell. I’m dying.” “Of course,” I said. When I got there, she was crying in the corner over an almond Danish. “I really felt like me and Trent had a connection,” she said. “I really felt like with this whole polyamory bit I would have enough going on to keep everything under control. Like I wouldn’t get too attached or too crazy about any single one of them. Now that’s all gone tits up.” “Which one was Trent?” I asked. “The old one with the ponytail.”

• From The Pisces (2018)

  But now I’ve started improv classes and I am really loving it. It’s like my inner child is finally coming out to play.” I cringed. Was there anything worse than improv? Maybe open mic nights. “I also enjoy essential oils,” she continued. “It’s a form of self-care. Every night I give myself a little rubdown with a homemade blend—rose, bergamot, and a drop of frankincense—on my neck and shoulders.” And probably your feet too, I thought. “I like to take myself out on artist dates,” said Brianne, her face unmoving. “Just me. I will go to a museum or the movies, get inspired and really connect with myself one-on-one in a creative setting. Afterwards I will take myself out for a good dinner and also dessert.” This seemed fucking annoying. I did not want to do any more connecting with myself. In fact I wanted to do less. “I guess I could do that,” I said. “I dare you,” said Sara. “I dare you to take yourself out on a date!” 25. “Doesn’t Venice make you want to shag everyone?” said Claire the next afternoon. “They’re all so scrummy.” She was getting her nails and toenails done at a salon in my neighborhood, preparing to meet David for their first real date—not just sex. I was sitting in the pedicure chair next to her but not getting anything done. “Beyond scrummy,” I said. “Well, I’m relieved to hear that you haven’t totally retired your pussy—at least in thought,” she said. “No,” I said. “Actually, I’ve been hanging out with this swimmer.” “A swimmer,” she said. “Like an Olympian?” “No, like ocean.” “Show me his Facebook.” “I’ve only met him a few times and I don’t have his number or email or anything. I don’t even know his last name. He meets me at this rock pile, these breakers, on the ocean. Like, he swims up at night.” “What do you mean ‘he swims up at night’?” “He swims up at night. And we talk. Also, he touched my foot.” “He touched your foot?” “Yeah.” “Oh so he has a fetish. Like Sara from group.” “Sara touches her own foot,” I said. “More like caresses,” said Claire. “She really makes love to that foot. Maybe she’s replaced men with her own foot?” “Ha! No, it was more like he thought my foot was special. Or like through the foot he was touching my soul.” Claire stared at me. “It’s not as weird as it sounds. And I think it’s safe for me emotionally, like, I’m not getting romantically obsessed, because I sort of just know now that he will show up. I can rely on him not to ignore me. It’s as though he is more of a friend or something.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Violet Peacock, who was now a V.A.D. with a very imposing Red Cross on her apron, occasionally managed to catch Stephen at home, and then would come reams of tiresome gossip. Sometimes she would bring her over-fed children along, she was stuffing them up like capons. By fair means or foul Violet always managed to obtain illicit cream for her nursery—she was one of those mothers who reacted to the war by wishing to kill off the useless aged. ‘What’s the good of them? Eating up the food of the nation!’ she would say, ‘I’m going all out on the young, they’ll be needed to breed from.’ She was very extreme, her perspective had been upset by the air raids. Raids frightened her as did the thought of starvation, and when frightened she was apt to grow rather sadistic, so that now she would want to rush off and inspect every ruin left by the German marauders. She had also been the first to applaud the dreadful descent of a burning Zeppelin. She bored Stephen intensely with her ceaseless prattle about Alec, who was one of London’s defenders, about Roger, who had got the Military Cross and was just on the eve of becoming a major, about the wounded whose faces she sponged every morning, and who seemed so pathetically grateful. From Morton came occasional letters for Puddle; they were more in the nature of reports now these letters. Anna had such and such a number of cases; the gardeners had been replaced by young women; Mr. Percival was proving very devoted, he and Anna were holding the estate well together; Williams had been seriously ill with pneumonia. Then a long list of humble names from the farms, from among Anna’s staff or from cottage homesteads, together with those from such houses as Morton—for the rich and the poor were in death united. Stephen would read that long list of names, so many of which she had known since her childhood, and would realize that the stark arm of war had struck deep at the quiet heart of the Midlands. BOOK FOURCHAPTER 351A stump of candle in the neck of a bottle flickered once or twice and threatened to go out. Getting up, Stephen found a fresh candle and lit it, then she returned to her packing-case upon which had been placed the remnants of a chair minus its legs and arms.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  ‘ “Les Petites Filles Modèles,” ’ Mademoiselle would announce, while Stephen yawned out her ineffable boredom; ‘Maintenant nous allons retrouver Sophie—Where to did we arrive? Ah, oui, I remember: “Cette preuve de confiance toucha Sophie et augmenta encore son regret d’avoir été si méchante. ‘ “Comment, se dit-elle, ai-je pu me livrer à une telle colère? Comment ai-je été si méchante avec des amies aussi bonnes que celles que j’ai ici, et si hardie envers une personne aussi douce, aussi tendre que Mme. de Fleurville!” ’ From time to time the programme would be varied by extracts of an even more edifying nature, and ‘Les Bons Enfants’ would be chosen for dictation, to the scorn and derision or Stephen. ‘La Maman. Donne-lui ton cœur, mon Henri; c’est ce que tu pourras lui donner de plus agréable. ‘—Mon cœur? Dit Henri en déboutonnant son habit et en ouvrant sa chemise. Mais comment faire? il me faudrait un couteau.’ At which Stephen would giggle. One day she had added a comment of her own in the margin: ‘Little beast, he was only shamming!’ and Mademoiselle, coming on this unawares, had been caught in the act of laughing by her pupil. After which there was naturally less discipline than ever in the schoolroom, but considerably more friendship. However, Anna seemed quite contented, since Stephen was becoming so proficient in French; and observing that his wife looked less anxious these days, Sir Philip said nothing, biding his time. This frank, jaunty slacking on the part of his daughter should be checked later on, he decided. Meanwhile, Stephen grew fond of the mild-faced Frenchwoman, who in her turn adored the unusual child. She would often confide her troubles to Stephen, those family troubles in which governesses abound—her Maman was old and delicate and needy; her sister had a wicked and spendthrift husband, and now her sister must make little bags for the grand shops in Paris that paid very badly, her sister was gradually losing her eyesight through making those little bead bags for the shops that cared nothing, and paid very badly. Mademoiselle sent Maman a part of her earnings, and sometimes, of course, she must help her sister. Her Maman must have her chicken on Sundays: ‘Bon Dieu, il faut vivre—il faut manger, au moins—’ And afterwards that chicken came in very nicely for Petite Marmite, which was made from his carcass and a few leaves of cabbage—Maman loved Petite Marmite, the warmth of it eased her old gums. Stephen would listen to these long dissertations with patience and with apparent understanding. She would nod her head wisely: ‘Mais c’est dur,’ she would comment, ‘c’est terriblement dur, la vie!’ But she never confided her own special troubles, and Mademoiselle Duphot sometimes wondered about her: ‘Est-elle heureuse, cet étrange petit être?’ she would wonder. ‘Sera-t-elle heureuse plus tard? Qui sait!’

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Weak in all other respects with Stephen, Mademoiselle Duphot clung to these dictées; the Bibliothèque Rose became her last trench of authority, and she held it. ‘ “Les Petites Filles Modèles,” ’ Mademoiselle would announce, while Stephen yawned out her ineffable boredom; ‘Maintenant nous allons retrouver Sophie—Where to did we arrive? Ah, oui, I remember: “Cette preuve de confiance toucha Sophie et augmenta encore son regret d’avoir été si méchante. ‘ “Comment, se dit-elle, ai-je pu me livrer à une telle colère? Comment ai-je été si méchante avec des amies aussi bonnes que celles que j’ai ici, et si hardie envers une personne aussi douce, aussi tendre que Mme. de Fleurville!” ’ From time to time the programme would be varied by extracts of an even more edifying nature, and ‘Les Bons Enfants’ would be chosen for dictation, to the scorn and derision or Stephen. ‘La Maman. Donne-lui ton cœur, mon Henri; c’est ce que tu pourras lui donner de plus agréable. ‘—Mon cœur? Dit Henri en déboutonnant son habit et en ouvrant sa chemise. Mais comment faire? il me faudrait un couteau.’ At which Stephen would giggle. One day she had added a comment of her own in the margin: ‘Little beast, he was only shamming!’ and Mademoiselle, coming on this unawares, had been caught in the act of laughing by her pupil. After which there was naturally less discipline than ever in the schoolroom, but considerably more friendship. However, Anna seemed quite contented, since Stephen was becoming so proficient in French; and observing that his wife looked less anxious these days, Sir Philip said nothing, biding his time. This frank, jaunty slacking on the part of his daughter should be checked later on, he decided. Meanwhile, Stephen grew fond of the mild-faced Frenchwoman, who in her turn adored the unusual child. She would often confide her troubles to Stephen, those family troubles in which governesses abound—her Maman was old and delicate and needy; her sister had a wicked and spendthrift husband, and now her sister must make little bags for the grand shops in Paris that paid very badly, her sister was gradually losing her eyesight through making those little bead bags for the shops that cared nothing, and paid very badly. Mademoiselle sent Maman a part of her earnings, and sometimes, of course, she must help her sister. Her Maman must have her chicken on Sundays: ‘Bon Dieu, il faut vivre—il faut manger, au moins—’ And afterwards that chicken came in very nicely for Petite Marmite, which was made from his carcass and a few leaves of cabbage—Maman loved Petite Marmite, the warmth of it eased her old gums. Stephen would listen to these long dissertations with patience and with apparent understanding.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Violet Peacock, who was now a V.A.D. with a very imposing Red Cross on her apron, occasionally managed to catch Stephen at home, and then would come reams of tiresome gossip. Sometimes she would bring her over-fed children along, she was stuffing them up like capons. By fair means or foul Violet always managed to obtain illicit cream for her nursery—she was one of those mothers who reacted to the war by wishing to kill off the useless aged. ‘What’s the good of them? Eating up the food of the nation!’ she would say, ‘I’m going all out on the young, they’ll be needed to breed from.’ She was very extreme, her perspective had been upset by the air raids. Raids frightened her as did the thought of starvation, and when frightened she was apt to grow rather sadistic, so that now she would want to rush off and inspect every ruin left by the German marauders. She had also been the first to applaud the dreadful descent of a burning Zeppelin. She bored Stephen intensely with her ceaseless prattle about Alec, who was one of London’s defenders, about Roger, who had got the Military Cross and was just on the eve of becoming a major, about the wounded whose faces she sponged every morning, and who seemed so pathetically grateful. From Morton came occasional letters for Puddle; they were more in the nature of reports now these letters. Anna had such and such a number of cases; the gardeners had been replaced by young women; Mr. Percival was proving very devoted, he and Anna were holding the estate well together; Williams had been seriously ill with pneumonia. Then a long list of humble names from the farms, from among Anna’s staff or from cottage homesteads, together with those from such houses as Morton—for the rich and the poor were in death united. Stephen would read that long list of names, so many of which she had known since her childhood, and would realize that the stark arm of war had struck deep at the quiet heart of the Midlands. BOOK FOURCHAPTER 351A stump of candle in the neck of a bottle flickered once or twice and threatened to go out. Getting up, Stephen found a fresh candle and lit it, then she returned to her packing-case upon which had been placed the remnants of a chair minus its legs and arms.

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

  The Basel council continued to drag on a tedious and uneventful existence. It was no longer in the stream of noticeable events. It stultified itself by granting Felix a tenth. In June, 1448, it adjourned to Lausanne. Reduced to a handful of adherents, and weary of being a synonym for innocuous failure, it voted to accept Nicolas V., Eugenius’ successor, as legitimate pope, and then quietly breathed its last, April 25, 1449. After courteously revoking his bulls

• From Available: The unfiltered and empowering new memoir for women about sex, dating and divorce after 40 (2021)

  I can usually make small talk like it’s an Olympic sport, but either I’ve utterly exhausted myself or he’s hopeless. Slowly, I drum my fingers against the iron table and eye his glass, trying to calculate how many sips it will take for it to be emptied. If he takes one sip a minute and there are 25 sips left, I’m looking at half an hour. When he has finally drained his glass, he insists on walking me home. At the corner outside my building, I point and say, “OK, this is me” and he steps forward, puts a hand on my waist, and kisses me more passionately than I ever could have expected from our vanilla conversation. I glance around, mortified to be kissed like this in the middle of the day in a spot where I know so many people, and also perplexed because where did that come from? I’m disappointed in myself as I go inside, having already failed at nailing this new “in and out” policy I came up with a few hours ago. I need to abandon some of my perpetual politeness if I am to continue to speed date. In other words, I need to actually adhere to the speed part and stop being solicitous and attentive when I know I will not see these men again. CHAPTER 23 Strut of Success I silence the voice that questions why Scott wasn’t honest about his address on his Tinder profile and why he seemed egregiously angry at the woman whose dog approached me during our walk, convincing myself that it will be good to go on a date outside of the city since I’m paranoid about being seen by people I know. Also, he’s a firefighter – a volunteer firefighter with his local fire department – but still, close enough. It is early evening when I pull my car up to a quiet suburban street of boxy low-rise apartment buildings, all of which look identical. Several times I drive to the top of the cul-de-sac and then U-turn before giving up and texting Scott that I am outside but can find neither his building nor a parking space. A few minutes later, I spot him walking on a path, sporty and robust in a T-shirt and gym shorts, making me feel conspicuously overdressed in a short, ruffly navy blue dress belted at the waist and a pair of high-wedge sandals. He comes right to the driver’s side and opens my door, asking if I want him to drive to find a parking spot. I slide out of the car and run around to the other side.

• From Available: The unfiltered and empowering new memoir for women about sex, dating and divorce after 40 (2021)

  Several shots later, when my pain hadn’t receded, Michael insisted that he accompany me to my next appointment to suss the doctor out himself. I could see him relax when he met the doctor, a kind and attentive man, and saw that he wasn’t a shyster negligently shooting people up with cortisone. When we left the office, he remarked that if anything was ever to happen to him, I should be with this man. I had laughed and told Michael that the doctor was happily married with two little boys and he replied, “OK well someone like him then, he’s the type I could see you with.” Had it occurred to me then that Michael was thinking about how I might land back on my feet after he left me, I would have been horrified, but instead I loved that he knew me so well and understood that if I hadn’t shacked up with him – a quirky risk taker – I would have opted for someone who could offer steadiness, security, and maybe a free flu shot every winter. George the surgeon arrives, dressed formally for a warm Saturday morning in a sports jacket and khakis. He is handsome, serious and hell-bent on making every point exceedingly clear. The most urgent of these points is that whenever he goes on a date, he pays, in order to avoid any awkwardness when the bill arrives. Even after I acknowledge this and joke that I promise not to so much as glance at the check when it arrives, he continues to tell me how important it is for him to have this steadfast rule. He is also adamant that he always lets his date pick the location. He will go just about anywhere but he does not want a lot of back and forth, hemming and hawing about where to go and what to do. I nod earnestly, yet still he goes on to explain the origin of this rule which involves indecisive, flighty women with no respect for time or commitment. I keep nodding, wondering if he wants me to pull out a piece of paper to take notes. Two painful hours pass this way. I don’t know if I should ask for a check since I’m not allowed to pay for it, but I’m crawling out of my skin. Have I misunderstood doctors all these years, thinking their authority and omnipotence offer a safe cushion when actually they just adhere to a lot of rigid rules and impenetrable order?

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  ‘ “Les Petites Filles Modèles,” ’ Mademoiselle would announce, while Stephen yawned out her ineffable boredom; ‘Maintenant nous allons retrouver Sophie—Where to did we arrive? Ah, oui, I remember: “Cette preuve de confiance toucha Sophie et augmenta encore son regret d’avoir été si méchante. ‘ “Comment, se dit-elle, ai-je pu me livrer à une telle colère? Comment ai-je été si méchante avec des amies aussi bonnes que celles que j’ai ici, et si hardie envers une personne aussi douce, aussi tendre que Mme. de Fleurville!” ’ From time to time the programme would be varied by extracts of an even more edifying nature, and ‘Les Bons Enfants’ would be chosen for dictation, to the scorn and derision or Stephen. ‘La Maman. Donne-lui ton cœur, mon Henri; c’est ce que tu pourras lui donner de plus agréable. ‘—Mon cœur? Dit Henri en déboutonnant son habit et en ouvrant sa chemise. Mais comment faire? il me faudrait un couteau.’ At which Stephen would giggle. One day she had added a comment of her own in the margin: ‘Little beast, he was only shamming!’ and Mademoiselle, coming on this unawares, had been caught in the act of laughing by her pupil. After which there was naturally less discipline than ever in the schoolroom, but considerably more friendship. However, Anna seemed quite contented, since Stephen was becoming so proficient in French; and observing that his wife looked less anxious these days, Sir Philip said nothing, biding his time. This frank, jaunty slacking on the part of his daughter should be checked later on, he decided. Meanwhile, Stephen grew fond of the mild-faced Frenchwoman, who in her turn adored the unusual child. She would often confide her troubles to Stephen, those family troubles in which governesses abound—her Maman was old and delicate and needy; her sister had a wicked and spendthrift husband, and now her sister must make little bags for the grand shops in Paris that paid very badly, her sister was gradually losing her eyesight through making those little bead bags for the shops that cared nothing, and paid very badly. Mademoiselle sent Maman a part of her earnings, and sometimes, of course, she must help her sister. Her Maman must have her chicken on Sundays: ‘Bon Dieu, il faut vivre—il faut manger, au moins—’ And afterwards that chicken came in very nicely for Petite Marmite, which was made from his carcass and a few leaves of cabbage—Maman loved Petite Marmite, the warmth of it eased her old gums. Stephen would listen to these long dissertations with patience and with apparent understanding. She would nod her head wisely: ‘Mais c’est dur,’ she would comment, ‘c’est terriblement dur, la vie!’ But she never confided her own special troubles, and Mademoiselle Duphot sometimes wondered about her: ‘Est-elle heureuse, cet étrange petit être?’ she would wonder. ‘Sera-t-elle heureuse plus tard? Qui sait!’

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  [image file=image_rsrc3R3.jpg] It took me until I was twenty-eight to finish all the course work and pass the PhD written and oral exams. By then Philip’s hip menswear sales were going so well that while waiting to hear back on the university teaching positions I’d interviewed for at the MLA convention, I took a break from earning my own way. Within the year I would have to accept a job that required I move out of state, and I wanted to enjoy my time at the beach house with Philip. I believed I’d found the best of Anaïs’s two worlds in Philip. As Hugo once was, Philip was a good breadwinner, and like Rupert, he supported my artistic ambitions without having such aspirations himself. I smiled, recalling what Anaïs had said when I’d once asked why she’d chosen Rupert. “Why do you ask?” Her tone a warning not to say anything negative about him. “I don’t know. You’re so extraordinary, and he—” I caught myself. “You’re an artist, and he isn’t.” With her soft, guttural laugh she’d told me, “I learned a long time ago, Tristine, that there can only be one star in a relationship, and I decided it should be me.” It was surprising, though, how quickly I got bored being the star of the relationship, unlike Anaïs. I loved Philip’s gentleness, his slow hand, the opium-dream length of his kisses, the assured gong of orgasm with him, but our lovemaking simply couldn’t compare to the inferno I’d known with Neal. With Philip’s new age otherworldliness and all the pot he smoked, our lovemaking was ethereal and dreamlike, but not mythic. More worrisome, Philip wanted to get married—in part because it would help with his immigration status, but also because he wanted to start a family, which I didn’t. To my surprise, with his paying all the rent and freeing up my time, I seemed to have lost my willpower. Even though I wasn’t teaching and was home all day, I couldn’t get anywhere on my PhD dissertation. I sat at my desk in a corner of the one-room house every day and was lucky if I squeezed out half a page. The sea and sky were gray and flat, the low-hanging haze stuck like a sigh in my chest. I was writing about other women’s lives. I wasn’t living my life as Anaïs had done, and I wouldn’t really be free to live until I finished the damned dissertation, and by that time Anaïs might be dead.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Pat said they were going to do the round. Wanda was coming and probably Brockett. Dickie West the American aviator was in Paris, and she also had promised to join them. Oh, yes, and then there was Valérie Seymour—Valérie was being dug out of her hole by Jeanne Maurel, her most recent conquest. Pat supposed that Valérie would drink lemon squash and generally act as a douche of cold water, she was sure to grow sleepy or disapproving, she was no acquisition to this sort of party. But could they rely upon Stephen’s car? In the cold, grey dawn of the morning after, taxis were sometimes scarce up at Montmartre. Stephen nodded, thinking how absurdly prim Pat looked to be talking of cold, grey dawns and all that they stood for up at Montmartre. After she had left, Stephen frowned a little. 2The five women were seated at a table near the door when Mary and Stephen eventually joined them. Pat, looking gloomy, was sipping light beer. Wanda, with the fires of hell in her eyes, in the hell of a temper too, drank brandy. She had started to drink pretty heavily again, and had therefore been avoiding Stephen just lately. There were only two new faces at the table, that of Jeanne Maurel, and of Dickie West, the much discussed woman aviator.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  The child showed a real ability for French, and this delighted her teacher; at the end of six months she could gabble quite freely, making quick little gestures and shrugging her shoulders. She liked talking French, it rather amused her, nor was she averse HE WELL OF LONELINESS 57 to mastering the grammar; what she could not endure were the long, foolish dictées from the edifying Bibliothéque Rose. Weak in all other respects with Stephen, Mademoiselle Duphot clung to these dictées; the Bibliothéque Rose became her last trench of authority, and she held it. *“*Les Petites Filles Modèles,” ’ Mademoiselle would an- nounce, while Stephen yawned out her ineffable boredom; ‘ Maintenant nous allons retrouver Sophie — Where to did we arrive? Ah, oui, I remember: “ Cette preuve de confiance toucha Sophie et augmenta encore son regret d’avoir été si méchante. *“ Comment, se dit-elle, ai-je pu me livrer à une telle colère? Comment ai-je été si méchante avec des amies aussi bonnes que celles que j’ai ici, et si hardie envers une personne aussi douce, aussi tendre que Mme. de Fleurville!” ’ From time to time the programme would be varied by ex- tracts of an even more edifying nature, and ‘ Les Bons Enfants ° would be chosen for dictation, to the scorn and derision of Stephen. “La Maman. Donne-lui ton cæur, mon Henri; c’est ce que tu pourras lui donner de plus agréable. ‘— Mon cœur? Dit Henri en déboutonnant son habit et en ouvrant sa chemise. Mais comment faire? il me faudrait un couteau.’ At which Stephen would giggle. One day she had added a comment of her own in the margin: * Little beast, he was only shamming!’ and Mademoiselle, com- ing on this unawares, had been caught in the act of laughing by her pupil. After which there was naturally less discipline than ever in the schoolroom, but considerably more friendship. However, Anna seemed quite contented, since Stephen was becoming so proficient in French; and observing that his wife looked less anxious these days, Sir Philip said nothing, biding his time. This frank, jaunty slacking on the part of his daughter should be checked later on, he decided. Meanwhile, Stephen grew fond of the mild-faced Frenchwoman, who in her turn adored the unusual child. She would often confide her troubles to Stephen, those family troubles in which governesses abound - R 58 THE WELL OF LONELINESS

• From Bastard Out of Carolina (1992)

  “Oh, for crying out loud.” I let Grey wear my cap, but I lost interest in the Swamp Fox. Who’d ever heard of him before he showed up on Walt Disney? Grey and Garvey would only play with us about half the time. They had taken up smoking and were busy practicing pitching pennies. When school started again, they planned to wipe out the lunch money of half the sixth grade. Meanwhile, they kept their distance unless I proposed a plot they really liked. “Let’s play Dalton Boys again,” Grey kept suggesting. He’d perfected the trick of diving off his bicycle after pretending to be shot, and he loved to show it off. “It’s the Dalton Girls,” I insisted. Reese and I had seen the movie and had told everybody the plot in such detail that the cousins would argue over just what did and did not happen even though they’d never seen it. All of us girls loved the idea of the gang of sisters who had robbed banks and avenged their dead brothers, but the boys preferred to play at Jesse James or the Younger Gang. “In that movie maybe, but everybody remembers the real Dalton Boys.” Garvey had seen the movie too, and hadn’t gotten over how the Dalton brothers were killed off in the first scene so the women could learn to shoot guns and rob banks. “I don’t think that movie was real anyway. I bet you their sisters never robbed no banks.” “What you want to bet?” Reese challenged. She’d loved that movie. “You think a girl can’t beat your ass? You think I can’t beat your ass?” She snatched my cap off Grey’s head. “You couldn’t scare a chicken off a nest of water moccasins!” Grey tried to get the cap back, but Reese kept running and twisting out of his reach, yelling at him over her shoulder. “You’re the one scared of water moccasins. Aunt Alma said you pissed your pants when she took you blackberrying, all ‘count of you stepped near a little green snake thinking it was some old water moccasin.” “You shut your chicken-piss mouth.” Grey jerked the cap back. “You shut yours!” Reese kicked at his ankles. “Girls!” “Boys!” “You give me my cap.” I pulled it out of Grey’s hands as he tried to hop out of the way of Reese’s hard little feet. I was hoping she would really hurt him when Aunt Alma broke the fight up. She sent the boys to play in the backyard and told us girls we’d have to stay in front. “If you can’t play together, I’ll keep you apart.” “I don’t want to be around no stupid boys anyway.” Reese spit in Grey’s direction. Sometimes I agreed with every word out of my little sister’s mouth. “But what we gonna play now?” Patsy Ruth whined. “We can’t ride the bikes in the front yard. We can’t do much of nothing in the front yard.”

• From Bastard Out of Carolina (1992)

  “Yeah.” I was restless and uninterested in Garvey’s troubles. Aunt Alma joked that the twins were too lazy to fart on their own, and sometimes I thought she was right. They were certainly dumb enough. Neither of them ever read a book or talked about anything but how rich they were gonna be “someday.” Mama said you could tell they were starting to grow up by how silly they had become, that teenagers always got stupid before they got smart. I wondered if that was what was happening to me, if I had already started to get stupid and just didn’t know it. Not that it mattered. Stupid or smart, there wasn’t much choice about what was going to happen to me, or to Grey and Garvey, or to any of us. Growing up was like falling into a hole. The boys would quit school and sooner or later go to jail for something silly. I might not quit school, not while Mama had any say in the matter, but what difference would that make? What was I going to do in five years? Work in the textile mill? Join Mama at the diner? It all looked bleak to me. No wonder people got crazy as they grew up. [image file=image_rsrc2PS.jpg] No matter what Mama said, I knew that it wasn’t just because of where she lived that I had never spent much time with Aunt Raylene. For all she was a Boatwright woman, there were ways Raylene had always been different from her sisters. She was quieter, more private, living alone with her dogs and fishing lines, and seemingly happy that way. She had always lived out past the city limits, and her house was where the older boy cousins tended to go. Out at Raylene’s they could smoke and curse and roughhouse without interference. She let kids do pretty much anything they wanted. With none of her own, Raylene was convinced that the best way to raise children was to give them their head. “There’s no evil in them,” she’d always say. “They’re just like puppies. They need to wear themselves out now and then.” Raylene’s place was easy to get to on the Eustis Highway but set off by itself on a little rise of land. The Greenville River curved around the outcropping where her weathered old shotgun house stood, and from the porch that went around three sides, you could watch the river and the highway that skirted it. Raylene kept the trees cut back and the shrubs low to the ground. “I don’t like surprises,” she always said. “I like to see who’s coming up on me.”

• From Tropic of Cancer (1934)

  You could walk up and down the main drive any Thursday in the week till doomsday and never meet an expansive soul. Sixty or seventy thousand people—perhaps more—wrapped in woolen underwear and nowhere to go and nothing to do. Turning out mustard by the carload. Female orchestras grinding out The Merry Widow . Silver service in the big hotels. The ducal palace rotting away, stone by stone, limb by limb. The trees screeching with frost. A ceaseless clatter of wooden shoes. The University celebrating the death of Goethe, or the birth, I don’t remember which. (Usually it’s the deaths that are celebrated.) Idiotic affair, anyway. Everybody yawning and stretching. Coming through the high driveway into the quadrangle a sense of abysmal futility always came over me. Outside bleak and empty; inside, bleak and empty. A scummy sterility hanging over the town, a fog of book-learning. Slag and cinders of the past. Around the interior courts were ranged the classrooms, little shacks such as you might see in the North woods, where the pedagogues gave free rein to their voices. On the blackboard the futile abracadabra which the future citizens of the republic would have to spend their lives forgetting. Once in a while the parents were received in the big reception room just off the driveway, where there were busts of the heroes of antiquity, such as Molière, Racine, Corneille, Voltaire, etc., all the scarecrows whom the cabinet ministers mention with moist lips whenever an immortal is added to the waxworks. (No bust of Villon, no bust of Rabelais, no bust of Rimbaud.) Anyway, they met here in solemn conclave, the parents and the stuffed shirts whom the State hires to bend the minds of the young. Always this bending process, this landscape gardening to make the mind more attractive. And the youngsters came too, occasionally—the little sunflowers who would soon be transplanted from the nursery in order to decorate the municipal grassplots. Some of them were just rubber plants easily dusted with a torn chemise. All of them jerking away for dear life in the dormitories as soon as night: came on. The dormitories! where the red lights glowed, where the bell rang like a fire alarm, where the treads were hollowed out in the scramble to reach the educational cells. Then there were the profs! During the first few days I got so far as to shake hands with a few of them, and of course there was always the salute with the hat when we passed under the arcades. But as for a heart-to-heart talk, as for walking to the corner and having a drink together, nothing doing. It was simply unimaginable. Most of them looked as though they had had the shit scared out of them. Anyway, I belonged to another hierarchy. They wouldn’t even share a louse with the likes of me.