Contempt

Passages

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

Page 147 of 253 · 20 per page

• From Summer Sisters (1998)

  “I’ve always wanted to see Venice.” “How do you feel about Cincinnati?” Vix asked. “Because that’s where the business is based. That’s where the patriarch has his palazzo.” Will had his own place in the East Sixties with a view of the Russian Consulate. “I think of you every night, Victoria,” he said, breathing heavily, when he finally took her there. His hand was under her skirt. “Have you been thinking of me? Have you?” Well, yes … Will had a king-size bed, a gray comforter, down pillows. When he kneeled over her sporting a hot pink condom she thought, a penis dressed as Malibu Barbie, and she tried not to giggle. Maybe her mother was right. Maybe the rich were different. She was flattered by his attention and curious about his world but she couldn’t say she was in love with him. She found him arrogant and, at times, even boring. They spent a long rainy weekend at an expensive inn in the Berkshires. While he read Forbes, Barrons , the Financial Times , Vix found herself fantasizing about Bru. At Sunday brunch Will said, “Tell me about your family, Victoria. Aside from the fact that you’re from Santa Fe I don’t know anything about you.” “What you see is what you get, Will.” “But what does your family do there?” “My father manages a restaurant and my mother is the amanuensis to the Countess de Lowenhoff.” She was glad to finally have the chance to use Abby’s description of her mother’s job. “Restaurant …” he said, raising his eyebrows. “Amanuensis. How charming. What about your grandparents?” “There are no grandparents.” She smiled at him. “Are you checking out my ancestry, Will?” “I’m interested in everything about you, Victoria.” “Well … my sister’s on welfare and my brother enlisted on his eighteenth birthday. I went all through school on scholarships. I owe my benefactors everything. They invested in my future so I could hold my own with snobs like you.” Will laughed, then applauded. “Brilliant!” He leaned over and kissed her. “You should write novels, Victoria. With your imagination and flair …” What was she doing with him? On the drive back to the city she decided to end it. “I’ve enjoyed our time together, Will … but I don’t think we should continue to see each other.” She waited for his reaction, then realized he hadn’t heard a word she’d said. She leaned forward and snapped off the CD player. “What?” he asked. “It’s over, Will.” “No, it’s not. He does ‘Say You Say Me’ next.” “I’m not talking about Lionel Ritchie, I’m talking about us.” “What about us?” “It’s over … we’re over. Fini, finis, finito.” “But we’re just getting started,” Will argued. “That should make it easier.” “Give me one good reason to end it now.” “We have nothing in common.” He took her hand and pressed it to the front of his pants. “We have this.” She shook her head.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  But then others in the company began to remonstrate with the Host. ‘We don’t want any dirty stories. Let him give us a morality tale. Let him teach us a lesson or two.’ ‘If that’s what you want,’ the Pardoner said. ‘But I must have a drink first. I need time to come up with something honest.’ When he came out of the alehouse he mounted his horse, and turned to them all. ‘Lords and ladies,’ he said, ‘I am used to preaching in churches, as you all know. I take great pains with my delivery, so that my voice rings out like a bell. I know my theme off by heart, of course. It is always the same. Do you know what it is? Greed is the root of all evil. First I tell them from where I have come. It might be Rome or Jerusalem. They don’t know the difference. Then I show them my papal indulgences. Oh. Before that I make sure that they all see the lord bishop’s seal on my papers. That is just to protect myself from interfering clergy, who might try to prevent me doing Christ’s holy work. They are so jealous, some of them. Then I really get going. I tell the congregation about the indulgences offered by cardinals and patriarchs and archbishops. I mutter a few words of Latin to spice up my sermon, and beg them to pray on their knees for their salvation. I get out of my sack the glass cases that hold the relics of the holy saints - a collar bone here and a wrist bone there. ‘“Here, good sirs and dames,” I might say, “is the shoulder bone of one of the sheep led by Jacob in the hills of Beersheba. Listen to my words. Wash this bone in any well, and the water from that well will cure your cattle of any murrain or blight. It will heal snakebites and kill intestinal worms. Bring your sheep to the well. When they drink from it, their scabs and sores will fall away from them. They will be uplifted. Listen to me carefully. If any one of you should drink a draught of the well water, once a week, just before dawn, your stock will thrive and multiply. There will be more lambs than you can count. That is what Genesis in the Holy Book tells us. You can read the passage for yourself. Chapter 39. Verses 37 to 39. ‘“And I’ll tell you something else. The water will heal suspicion and distrust. If a man should fall into a jealous rage, just let him mix it with his soup. He will feel the difference. He will never accuse his wife again - not even if he sees her in the company of a priest or two. Do you see this glove of knitted wool? If any man puts his hand in this glove, his harvest will be bountiful.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  quien se casó con una stripper y decidió que quería pasar el resto de su vida en un bar, así que él y su esposa abrieron este lugar y vivieron felices desde entonces. Me sonríe, su camiseta negra está tensada sobre su pecho aún musculoso. —El dinero que podríamos hacer juntos —menciona, guiñándome un ojo. Regreso mi mirada a la habitación, conteniendo la risa. El tipo realmente debería poner un puesto en la feria de empleo de la secundaria, así puede tomar a las mujeres en cuanto lleguen a la edad legal de dieciocho años, en lugar de seguir acosándome. —Tu hermana dice que no tienes la cabeza para esto, y se supone que te deje en paz, pero Jordan... —No vine aquí para eso —interrumpo—. Vine a hablar con ella. Terminé analizando la habitación y estoy a punto de irme a la parte trasera, pero de repente se mueve hacia mí, con tono calmado pero severo. —También ves a estos clientes en Grounders, ¿cierto? —Mira la multitud y luego hacia mí—. Son los mismos tipos a los que sirves allí, ¿no es así? Vuelvo a poner la mirada en las mesas y las cabinas, reconociendo a algunos. Es una ciudad pequeña. ¿Y qué? —¿Por qué crees que van ahí? —cuestiona, estrechando su mirada en mí—. Aquí tengo un chef y un menú mucho mejor. Camareros entrenados. Baños limpios. ¿Por qué no pasar todo su tiempo en los bares aquí? —Porque Grounders es más barato. —Porque Grounders también vende sexo —contesta—. Estos chicos van a Grounders para verte a ti, a Shel, Ashley, Ellie... No por la cerveza barata y las cáscaras de cacahuete en el suelo. Después de todo, ¿por qué crees que allí no hay hombres trabajando? Shel te contrató por tu apariencia. No digo nada, sino que vuelvo a centrarme en el escenario donde veo a mi hermana salir detrás del telón. Mick me observa, y casi puedo sentir su aliento en mi nuca, aunque está a dos metros. —No te engañes —me dice—. Todavía te están mirando como un trozo de carne, incluso con toda la ropa puesta. —Y luego levanta la mirada hacia el escenario, hacia mi hermana girando en la barra—. Ella simplemente gana mucho más dinero.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Muevo mi barbilla, saludándolo, pero no respondo. Nunca me gustó el tipo y nunca me importó ser amable. Lo que debe haber notado a estas alturas. No me importa, sin embargo. Solo mirarlo me irrita. Y no es nada específico lo que odio. Solo pequeñas cosas que se suman a lo largo de los años. Cómo trató a su esposa. Cómo era infiel y nunca estaba en casa. Cómo se quedó con la casa después del divorcio y la envió a ella y a sus hijos a vivir a un apartamento. Cómo contrata constantemente niñeras cuando se supone que sus hijos pasan tiempo con él durante el fin de semana. Eh, ¿quién sabe? Tal vez intentó obtener la custodia y tal vez ella lo engañó primero. Nunca se sabe realmente lo que sucede en la casa de alguien. Mírame a mí y cómo se crió mi hijo, después de todo. ¿Quién soy para juzgar? Todavía no me gusta el tipo. Piensa que su carrera de ejecutivo y los triatlones lo convierten en un héroe. Y ahora sueno malditamente celoso. Estupendo. Pulsando el código en el panel al costado de la puerta del garaje, retrocedo y lo abro. No guardo ningún automóvil aquí, así que hay espacio para que sirva como taller de mecánica y área de trabajo. Hay herramientas, un compresor de aire, un refrigerador extra, un par de bancos de trabajo y una mesa completa llena de piezas de automóviles que acaban de ser arrojadas aquí a lo largo de los años. El auto de Jordan está en el camino de entrada, pero sé que tendré que entrar aquí por unas cuantas cosas después de abrir el capó. Cole no es malo con los autos, pero sé que va a necesitarse dinero para conseguir que funcione nuevamente, y dinero que no tienen. Al menos echaré un vistazo, para ver qué tan malo es. —Hola, hombre. Miro por encima de mi hombro y veo a Dutch subiendo por el camino de entrada. Tiene ropa seca y una cerveza en la mano. Nada raro. Mantiene un refrigerador en la parte trasera de su camioneta. —Hola. —Me quito la camiseta aún húmeda por la cabeza y la tiro en un banco de trabajo. Sacando un gato de debajo de una mesa, salgo del garaje hacia el VW verde desvaído. Dutch saca una silla de jardín y la lleva a la hierba junto al auto de Jordan. —¿A las cinco mañana? —pregunta. —Sí. Como perdimos tiempo hoy, sabe que mañana querré comenzar temprano.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  Drunkenness is just as foul a sin. Alcohol provokes violence and creates misery. It sours the breath. It disfigures the features. Who would want to embrace a drunk? He snores loudly, and mutters broken words. Oh you drunkard, you fall down as heavily as a stuck pig. You have lost your tongue, as well as your self-respect. Drunkenness is the graveyard of intelligence and decency. Never trust a man who is lost in drink. Never confide in him. So, good people, keep away from the red and the white wines that are sold in Fish Street and Cheapside. Spanish wine is the cheapest and the worst. It seems to get mixed up with other wines, until it becomes quite overpowering. Its vapours go straight to the head. I do not blame the vintners for this, of course. God forbid. My father was a vintner. It must happen naturally somehow. Two or three glasses are enough. The drunkard may then think he is at home in London, but in fact he has been transported to a vineyard in Spain. He is lying among the grapes, burbling nonsense. So, lords and ladies, listen to me. All of the great deeds and victories commemorated in the Old Testament were performed by men who practised abstinence. They never touched liquor. They prayed to Almighty God instead. Read all about it in the Holy Book. In contrast, think of Attila. This great king and conqueror, to his manifest shame and dishonour, died in his sleep from too much drink; he was bleeding at the nose, in fact. A military man should live soberly. Remember what was commanded of Lamuel. Was it Samuel? No. Lamuel. It is in the Book of Proverbs. ‘Give not to kings, Oh Lamuel, give not wine to kings. For there is no secret where drunkenness reigns.’ There is no need to say more on that subject.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  ‘Well, sir, I think I can cure it. I think I may do you a service, in a day or two if necessary. If you showed me a little bit more consideration, I might help you out. But please don’t go on about your high rank. You get your lineage from old money. That is all. It isn’t worth a damn. It is sheer conceit. You should be more concerned with human virtue. You should give more consideration to those who perform good works, in private and in public. They are the real gentlemen. Our Saviour tells us that true nobility comes from His example, not from the money bags of our rich ancestors. Although they may give us all of their worldly goods, from which we claim good breeding, they cannot bequeath to us the gift of holy living. An honest man is made by honest deeds. That is the only lesson your forefathers can impart to you. ‘I suppose you know the high words of the Florentine poet, Dante, who taught us this sentence - “A man cannot climb heavenward on his own slender branches. God wills us to claim from Him our strength and purpose.” The only things we can inherit from our ancestors are material goods that in fact may harm or injure us. Everyone knows this as well as I do. If virtue were of natural growth in certain families, proceeding down the line from parent to child, then they could do nothing but good. It would be impossible for them to be caught in villainy or vice. ‘Take a piece of fire. Carry it into the darkest house between here and the Caucasian mountains. Shut the doors upon it and depart. The fire will keep on burning, pure and unsullied, just as if twenty thousand people were observing it. It will perform its natural function until it expires. I stake my life upon it. So now you may understand what I have been telling you. Gentility cannot be borrowed or purchased. Fire is always and forever fire. Men are of more mixed natures, susceptible to change. God knows it happens often enough that the son of a nobleman behaves shamefully. There are some who make great play of their ancestry, and of their virtuous grandfathers and great-grandfathers, but who themselves are only notable as villains. They are not like their ancestors at all. A man may call himself a lord or an earl but, in reality, he is a sot and a churl. Nobility is the renown won by others who came before you. It does not belong to you by right of birth. God alone can grant you virtue. God alone is the source and spring of grace.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  ‘I knew it! I saw his death in a vision! I was lying in the dormitory, when I saw him before me. It was probably less than a hour after he expired. I saw him being transported to heaven, so help me God! Our sacristan and our infirmarian saw him, too, and they have been holy friars for fifty years or more. They have reached the age when they may walk about in the world alone, God bless them. As soon as I saw your child in bliss, I got up from my bed. The tears were running down my cheeks. Lord. My eyes were waterspouts. The whole of our convent came out with me, with no bells and no noise at all, and we went into the chapel where we sang the Te Deum. Then I prayed to Christ, thanking Him for His revelation to me. Trust me, good wife and husband, when I tell you that the prayers of friars really do work. We know more about the teachings of Christ than any layperson, kings included. We live in poverty and abstinence. You lay folk indulge in luxury and spendthrift ways. You love meat and drink and all the foul temptations of the flesh. We friars, on the other hand, hold the world in contempt.’ The wife now left the room, in order to prepare the pig’s head for her guest. ‘Do you know the difference, Thomas,’ he went on in the same even tone, ‘between the poor man Lazar and the rich man Dives? One of them came to a bad end. Which one do you think it was? Those who wish to pray must fast and remain pure; they must curb the body and attend to the soul. We follow the teaching of the apostles. We are content with scraps of food and the merest rags. So our penance and our abstinence give wings to our prayers. They fly straight up to Christ in heaven. ‘You recall, Thomas, that Moses fasted for forty days and forty nights before he was permitted to converse with Almighty God on the summit of Mount Sinai? Only after he had denied himself food for all that time was he permitted to receive the Ten Commandments, written with Jehovah’s own finger of fire. And do you remember Elijah on Mount Horeb? The prophet fasted, too, and spent his days in contemplation before God deemed it right to speak to him. Aaron and all the other priests of the temple would never dare to approach the incense altar without mortifying their flesh. They prayed only after they had abstained from drink. How could they be drunk in the holy place? It was unthinkable. God would have struck them dead. Take warning from what I say, Thomas. The priest who prays for your welfare and recovery must be sober - or else . . . well, I will say no more. You catch my drift.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  ‘Our own Saviour, as the New Testament tells us, gave us many examples of fasting and of prayer. That is why simple friars like myself are wedded to poverty and to celibacy. We lead lives of charity, of pity and of purity. I myself am always weeping. Yes I am. Of course sometimes we are persecuted for our holiness. That is the world for you. Nevertheless I tell you this. Our prayers are more acceptable to God. They rise higher than those of you and your kind, who can think only of your sensual appetites. Adam and Eve were expelled from the Garden of Eden for the sin of gluttony. Is that not so? It was not for lechery. I know that much. ‘Thomas, listen to me, I beseech you. I don’t have the exact text about me at the moment, but I can remember the gist of it. These are the words of sweet Lord Jesus, when He was talking about us friars. “Blessed,” He said, “are the poor in spirit.” That’s me! All the gospels sing our praises. Cleanliness is next to godliness. The eye of the needle. That kind of thing. Do you think they are referring to us or to those of you who wallow in your possessions? I pity those who are in thrall to gluttony. I spit on those who are addicted to lechery. I abjure them, Thomas. I renounce them. They are no better than that heretic Jovinian. He was as fat as a whale, and he waddled like a swan. He was as full of booze as a bottle in an alehouse. How can people like that pray? When they pray, they burp instead. Do you know that psalm of David when he says that his heart is issuing a great matter? All they issue is gas. ‘No. We are the ones that humbly follow the path and example of Jesus. We are meek. We are poor. We are chaste. We are lowly, Thomas, ever so lowly. We do not just listen to God’s word. We practise it. Just as the hawk in upward flight mounts to the firmament, so do our prayers and solicitations reach the gates of heaven. We aspire, Thomas. As I live and breathe, Thomas, you will not flourish unless you are part of our brotherhood. I swear that on all the saints. We friars are praying for you night and day, beseeching Christ to take pity on your sick flesh and restore your poor body to health.’ ‘God help me,’ the invalid replied. ‘I haven’t felt the benefit. Over the last few years I have spent pounds and pounds on the various orders of friars. What good has it done me? None at all. I have got through most of my money, and now I might as well say goodbye to the rest.’

• From The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  He started kicking at the dirt like he didn’t want to talk about it anymore. “She was kinda nice,” he said. After that, Brian waved to the women on the porch of the Green Lantern, and they smiled real big and waved back, but I was still a little afraid of them. OUR HOUSE IN BATTLE MOUNTAIN was filled with animals. They came and went, stray dogs and cats, their puppies and kittens, nonpoisonous snakes, and lizards and tortoises we caught in the desert. A coyote that seemed pretty tame lived with us for a while, and once Dad brought home a wounded buzzard that we named Buster. He was the ugliest pet we ever owned. Whenever we fed Buster scraps of meat, he turned his head sideways and stared at us out of one angry-looking yellow eye. Then he’d scream and frantically flap his good wing. I was secretly glad when his hurt wing healed and he flew away. Every time we saw buzzards circling overhead, Dad would say that he recognized Buster among them and that he was coming back to thank us. But I knew Buster would never even consider returning. That buzzard didn’t have an ounce of gratitude in him. We couldn’t afford pet food, so the animals had to eat our leftovers, and there usually wasn’t much. “If they don’t like it, they can leave,” said Mom. “Just because they live here doesn’t mean I’m going to wait on them hand and foot.” Mom told us that we were actually doing the animals a favor by not allowing them to become dependent on us. That way, if we ever had to leave, they’d be able to get by on their own. Mom liked to encourage self-sufficiency in all living creatures. Mom also believed in letting nature take its course. She refused to kill the flies that always filled the house; she said they were nature’s food for the birds and lizards. And the birds and lizards were food for the cats. “Kill the flies and you starve the cats,” she said. Letting the flies live, in her view, was the same as buying cat food, only cheaper. One day I was visiting my friend Carla when I noticed that her house didn’t have any flies. I asked her mother why. She pointed toward a shiny gold contraption dangling from the ceiling, which she proudly identified as a Shell No-Pest Strip. She said it could be bought at the filling station and that her family had one in every room. The No-Pest Strips, she explained, released a poison that killed all the flies. “What do your lizards eat?” I asked. “We don’t have any lizards, either,” she said. I went home and told Mom we needed to get a No-Pest Strip like Carla’s family, but she refused.

• From City of Night (1963)

  “Everyone in the world has the same loves you have, huh, lovebushel?” Carl asked. “Well, you do!—and Dont You Forget It!” Neil hurled at him. Carl closed his eyes, sipped the wineglass empty, refilled it “Their souls—our souls,” he sighed. Neil: “What are you babbling about?” Carl giggled. “You. Im babbling about you. And Souls!” “Besides,” Neil said absently as if to himself, “he wasnt even any good. He just wanted to lay there— naked!” “You told me he loved costumes,” said Carl in mock surprise. “And your guns, remember?—he loved those too. You mean, Neil, he just knocked you out—just like that—you werent even going through one of your fantasies?” “Naked!” said Neil contemptuously. Carl: “Why do you hate the body so much, Neil?” The phone rang. “Hello?” Neil answered.... Nothing. “Your new disciple?” Carl asked when Neil returned. “One day hell speak,” said Neil pensively. “Maybe theres lots and lots—and lots of em, Neil—all women! ” He spat the last word at Neil. “Maybe theres a counter-conspiracy afoot! To drive you may-ad!” “Shut up, Carl,” Neil said. “You really are a Saint,” Carl said. “You may say it sarcastically—youre so drunk you dont even know what youre saying. But I do bring people out.” “Hes really right about that,” Carl says to me. “Have you taken him around yet?” he asks Neil. To me: “He will—if you stick around. (But dont, baby, dont!) Hell take you to the bars—hell dress you up—hell show you around. Hes already taken pictures of you!... And he’ll introduce you to the motorcycle leather-crowd—show you their ‘initiations.’ The first time I went, they tied one guy up to a post, took turns—... The blood was coming, but he was screaming for more!” And still addressing me, he went on: “And then one day, Neil will show you his collection in his studio in the basement” He shuddered. “Did you know, Neil, that once, when I told you there was a guy who hung out in Union Square in leather and you went and sat there three straight nights in a row waiting for him—did you know that I made it up, hoping one of the park regulars would pick you up and really—and seriously—beat the hell out of you?” He says that in a jocular tone, but his eyes are fixed on Neil with unequivocal hatred. “And later,” Carl sighs, “when I heard of someone new, I was waiting for him!” Neil laughs—but nervously. He comes in illogically, whether to change the subject or whether still obsessed by the kid who had clipped his guns: “Sometimes, you know, sometimes I can still get aroused by the—... naked... body.”

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  You have probably understood me by now. ‘So I tell them tales of old times, taken out of books. The lewd people love a good story. That is the only way they can remember anything. Do you really think that I am going to live like a monk, when I can earn money so easily? I have never even considered the idea. Truly. I can preach and beg in all sorts of places. I never intend to work. I am not going to make baskets, or thresh wheat, for a living. I never beg in vain. I always get my reward. I am not going to imitate the example of the apostles, in other words. I want meat and fine clothes, and bread and cheese, and of course money. I will take it from the meanest servant or the poorest widow in the village, even though she has to deprive her children of food. I like to drink and make merry, too, and I make sure I have a whore in every town. Listen to me, ladies and gentlemen, in conclusion. You want me to recite a tale to you. I have had a draught of the landlord’s best ale in that hostelry, and I am ready to tell you a story that will really entertain you. I may be a very wicked man, but I can relate a highly virtuous tale. It is one of the stories I use in my sermons, after all. So be silent. I will begin.’

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  When they arrived at the mill John unloaded the sack while Alan chatted to the miller. ‘Canny to see you, Simkin,’ he said. ‘How are your wife and your bonny daughter?’ ‘Alan, how are you? And you, too, John. What are you both doing here?’ ‘Well, Simkin, need knows no law. A lad who has no servant must serve himself. Otherwise he has a pranny for a master. You know that our manciple is on the way out?’ ‘I have heard.’ ‘Even his teeth hurt. It’s that bad. So me and Alan have come here to grind our corn and take it back to college. Will ye give us a hand?’ ‘Of course I will. Better than that. I’ll do it for you. But what do you want to do while it is grinding?’ ‘Well, I think I’ll stand awa’ there by the hopper when the corn flows in. I have never watched that happen. I wouldn’t mind seein’ it.’ ‘And I’ll stand awa’ there,’ Alan said, ‘and watch the meal gannin’ doon into the trough. That’ll keep me happy. You and I are just the same, John. We kna’ nowt about mills or millers.’ The miller was smiling at their stupidity. ‘They are trying to trick me,’ he said to himself. ‘They think that nobody can fool them. Well, well. I’ll pull the wool over their eyes just the same. Their logic or philosophy - whatever it is they study - is not worth a bean. The more tricks they pull, the more I will return. Instead of flour, I’ll give them bran. As the wolf said to the mare, the greatest scholars are not the wisest men. That was a shrewd wolf. And so will I be.’ So, when he saw his opportunity, he left the mill very quietly and went down into the yard. He looked about him, and finally found the clerks’ horse tied to a tree behind the mill. The miller goes up to it, unties it, and takes off its bridle. When the horse was loose it started sniffing the air and then with a ‘Weehee’ galloped off towards the fen where the wild mares roam. Well pleased, the miller returned to John and Alan. He said nothing about the horse, of course, but laughed and joked with them as he got on with the job. At last the corn was finely ground, and the meal put in a sack, all above board. Then John went out into the yard. He looked around for the horse. And then - ‘Oh fuck! The horse is gone! Alan, for fuck’s sake get oot here! We’ve lost the master’s horse!’ Alan forgot all about the meal and corn, forgot all about watching the miller, and rushed out of the mill. ‘Which way did it gan?’ he cried out to John. ‘How am I supposed to kna’?’ Then out ran the miller’s wife in a state of great excitement.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  It could be wheat or it could be oats. It makes no difference. Just make a small offering of silver to me. The crop will flourish. Mark my words. ‘“There is one thing of which I must warn you, good ladies and gentlemen. If there is any man among you who has committed a mortal sin, too horrible to confess - if there is any woman among you, young or old, who has been unfaithful to her husband - such folks cannot come up and make an offering to my relics here. They do not have the grace. They do not have the power. But if the rest of you wish to make an offering, then come forward now. I will absolve you of your sins. I have the bishop’s authority to shrive you.” ‘So by these deceits I have earned at least a hundred pounds as a pardoner. I stand like a priest in the pulpit. I preach to the dolts. I beseech them. I use every trick in the book. I can tell them a hundred lies, and never be found out. I lean forward and stretch out my neck, just like a dove perched on the rafter of a barn. My hands and tongue are working so hard that it is a joy to see me in action. I tell them to forsake the sin of avarice. I tell them to be charitable. Especially to me. I am only interested in their money, you see, not in the state of their souls. I don’t care what happens to them once they are dead. They can pick blackberries, as far as I am concerned. ‘I will tell you something else. Many sermons, and devotional homilies, spring from bad intentions. Some preachers just want to flatter or to entertain. Some are motivated by hypocrisy, or vainglory, or hate. If I cannot get at my enemy directly, I will sting him in a sermon. I will wound him in covert ways, so that he cannot fight back. “No,” I say, “I will not name the enemies of us pardoners. That would be too low.” But of course the congregation know exactly whom I am talking about. They can tell from my looks and gestures. That is how I retaliate against those who defame me. I spit out my venom under the cover of holiness. I seem virtuous, but seeming is not being. ‘I will tell you the truth in one sentence. I preach only for money. I want their silver pence. That is why my theme has always been, and always will be, the same. “Greed is the root of all evil.” It is suitable, don’t you think? I preach against the very vices I practise! It saves time. And even though I may be guilty of that sin, I persuade other folk to repent with much wailing and lamenting. But that is really not my intention. I will say it one more time. I preach only for the cash.

• From Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity (1990)

  I think that style is a complicated terrain, and not one that we unilaterally choose or control with the purposes we consciously intend. Fredric Jameson made this clear in his early book on Sartre. Certainly, one can practice styles, but the styles that become available to you are not entirely a matter of choice. Moreover, neither grammar nor style are politically neutral. Learning the rules that govern intelligible speech is an inculcation into normalized language, where the price of not conforming is the loss of intelligibility itself. As Drucilla Cornell, in the tradition of Adorno, reminds me: there is nothing radical about common sense. It would be a mistake to think that received grammar is the best vehicle for expressing radical views, given the constraints that grammar imposes upon thought, indeed, upon the thinkable itself. But formulations that twist grammar or that implicitly call into question the subject-verb requirements of propositional sense are clearly irritating for some. They produce more work for their readers, and sometimes their readers are offended by such demands. Are those who are offended making a legitimate request for “plain speaking” or does their complaint emerge from a consumer expectation of intellectual life? Is there, perhaps, a value to be derived from such experiences of linguistic difficulty? If gender itself is naturalized through grammatical norms, as Monique Wittig has argued, then the alteration of gender at the most fundamental epistemic level will be conducted, in part, through contesting the grammar in which gender is given. The demand for lucidity forgets the ruses that motor the ostensibly “clear” view. Avital Ronell recalls the moment in which Nixon looked into the eyes of the nation and said, “let me make one thing perfectly clear” and then proceeded to lie. What travels under the sign of “clarity,” and what would be the price of failing to deploy a certain critical suspicion when the arrival of lucidity is announced? Who devises the protocols of “clarity” and whose interests do they serve? What is foreclosed by the insistence on parochial standards of transparency as requisite for all communication? What does “transparency” keep obscure?

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  Of all the four orders, however, his was the most inclined to gossip and to flattery. He had arranged many marriages and sometimes, for reasons that I will not mention, he had to pay for them himself. Still, he was a pillar of the faith. He was well known to all the rich landowners of his neighbourhood and he was familiar, too, with the worthy women of his town. He had full power of confession, which, as he said himself, was superior to that of an ordinary curate; he could absolve the most awful sins. He heard the confessions very patiently, and pronounced the absolution very sweetly; he exacted the mildest of penances, especially if the penitent had something to give to his poor order. Bless me, father, for I have sinned and I have a large purse. That was the kind of thing he liked to hear. For, as he said, what is better proof of penitence than dispensing alms to the friars of God? There are many men who suffer from guilt and repentance, but are so hard of heart that they cannot weep for their sins. Therefore, instead of tears and prayers, these men must give silver to the friars. The tip of his hood, hanging down his back, was stuffed full of knives and pins which he gave away to pretty wives; whether he got anything in return, I could not say. I am only the narrator. I cannot be everywhere at once. I can say that the Friar had a very pleasant voice; he could sing well, and play on the gitern or lute. There was no one to beat him with a ballad. I heard him sing ‘Grimalkin, our cat’. He was excellent. And when he played the harp, and sang an accompaniment, his eyes shone like the stars on a clear crisp night of frost. He had skin as white as a lily, but he was not lily-livered; he was as strong as a champion at the Shrovetide games. He knew the taverns in every town, as well as every landlord and barmaid; certainly he spent more time with them than with lepers or beggar-women. Who could blame him? ‘My position as a confessor,’ he told me, ‘does not allow me to consort with the poorer sort. It would not be honourable. It would not be respectable. It would not be beneficial. I am more at my ease with the rich, and with the wealthier merchants. They are my congregation, sir.’ So, wherever there was profit to be gained, he was modest and courteous and virtuous to a fault. No one was better at soliciting funds. Even a widow with no shoes to her name would have given him something. When he greeted a poor householder with ‘In principio’, he would end up with a farthing at least. In the beginning was the coin. His total income was higher than his projected income. I will say no more.

• From The Case for God (2009)

  In 1871, John William Draper (1811–82), head of the department of medicine at New York University, published The History of the Conflict Between Religion and Science, which went through fifty printings and was translated into ten languages. While Religion clung timidly to the unchangeable truths of revelation, Science forged expansively ahead, giving us telescopes, barometers, canals, hospitals, sanitation, schools, the telegraph, calculus, sewing machines, rifles, and warships. Only Science could liberate us from the tyranny of Religion (Draper habitually capitalized these terms so that they seemed like characters in a morality play). “The ecclesiastic must learn to keep himself within the domain he has chosen, and cease to tyrannize over the philosopher, who, conscious of his own strength and the purity of his motives, will bear such interference no longer.”68 Ultimately, however, Draper’s polemic was marred by his blatantly anti-Catholic prejudice. Less immediately popular but more influential long-term was A History of the Warfare of Science and Theology in Christendom (1896) by the ardent secularist Andrew Dixon White (1832–1918), first president of Cornell University. In all modern history, interference with science in the supposed interest of religion, no matter how conscientious such interference may have been, has resulted in the direst evils both to religion and science—and invariably. And, on the other hand, all untrammelled scientific investigations no matter how dangerous to religion some of its stages may have seemed, for the time, has invariably resulted in the highest good of religion and of science.69 The two were implacably opposed. One of these protagonists was beneficial to humanity; the other, evil and dangerous. Ever since Augustine had insisted on the “absolute authority of scripture,” all theologians “without exception, have forced mankind away from the truth, and have caused Christendom to stumble for centuries into abysses of error and sorrow.”70

• From The Case for God (2009)

  Title : The Case for God Author: Armstrong, Karen ALSO BY KAREN ARMSTRONG Through the Narrow Gate: A Memoir of Life In and Out of the Convent Beginning the World The First Christian: St. Paul’s Impact on Christianity Tongues of Fire: An Anthology of Religious and Poetic Experience The Gospel According to Woman: Christianity’s Creation of the Sex War in the West Holy War: The Crusades and Their Impact on Today’s World The English Mystics of the Fourteenth Century Muhammad: A Biography of the Prophet A History of God: The 4,000-Year Quest of Judaism, Christianity, and Islam Jerusalem: One City, Three Faiths In the Beginning: A New Interpretation of Genesis The Battle for God Islam: A Short History Buddha: A Penguin Life The Spiral Staircase: My Climb Out of Darkness A Short History of Myth The Great Transformation: The Beginning of Our Religious Traditions The Bible: A Biography [image file=image_rsrc4UK.jpg] For Joan Brown Campbell ContentsIntroduction PART I The Unknown God (30,000 BCE TO 1500 CE) ONE Homo religiosus TWO God THREE Reason FOUR Faith FIVE Silence SIX Faith and Reason PART II The Modern God (1500 CE TO THE PRESENT) SEVEN Science and Religion EIGHT Scientific Religion NINE Enlightenment TEN Atheism ELEVEN Unknowing TWELVE Death of God? Epilogue Acknowledgments Notes Glossary Selected Bibliography IntroductionWe are talking far too much about God these days, and what we say is often facile. In our democratic society, we think that the concept of God should be easy and that religion ought to be readily accessible to anybody. “That book was really hard!” readers have told me reproachfully, shaking their heads in faint reproof. “Of course it was!” I want to reply. “It was about God.” But many find this puzzling. Surely everybody knows what God is: the Supreme Being, a divine Personality, who created the world and everything in it. They look perplexed if you point out that it is inaccurate to call God the Supreme Being because God is not a being at all, and that we really don’t understand what we mean when we say that he is “good,” “wise,” or “intelligent.” People of faith admit in theory that God is utterly transcendent, but they seem sometimes to assume that they know exactly who “he” is and what he thinks, loves, and expects. We tend to tame and domesticate God’s “otherness.” We regularly ask God to bless our nation, save our queen, cure our sickness, or give us a fine day for the picnic. We remind God that he has created the world and that we are miserable sinners, as though this may have slipped his mind. Politicians quote God to justify their policies, teachers use him to keep order in the classroom, and terrorists commit atrocities in his name. We beg God to support “our” side in an election or a war, even though our opponents are, presumably, also God’s children and the object of his love and care.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  So let me turn to gambling. Next to drunkenness, gaming is the worst vice. Dice are the mothers of lies. They are the cause of deceit, of cursing, of perjury, of blasphemy, and even of manslaughter. They waste time and money. And, furthermore, to be known as a common gambler is deemed to be a great dishonour. The more exalted a man is in rank, as a gambler, the more infamous he will become. A gambling prince would be unfit to frame a policy. He would be considered incompetent in public life. Once upon a time the philosopher Stilbo was sent from Sparta as an ambassador to form an alliance with Corinth. He travelled in great state but, on his arrival, he happened to find all the greatest in the land grouped around a gaming table. As soon as he could, he returned to his own nation. ‘I am not going to lose my reputation,’ he said to his rulers, ‘or bring shame to my own people, by making an alliance with gamblers. Send other wise envoys, if you wish, but on my honour I would rather die than negotiate with such wastrels. We Spartans are a glorious people. We cannot allow ourselves to be associated with them. I for one could not sign such a treaty.’ So spoke the wise philosopher. Take the case of King Demetrius. The king of Persia sent him a pair of golden dice to signify his scorn for him as a well-known gambler. Demetrius had no thought for his honour or his glory. As a result he had no reputation in the outside world. The great lords of the earth can surely think of better ways to spend their time than in dicing.

• From The Case for God (2009)

  99 This state of “unknowing” was not a defeat but an achievement; we arrived at this point by ruthlessly paring down all our God talk, until prayer was reduced to a single syllable: “God!” or “Love!” It was not easy. The mind rushed to fill the vacuum we were trying to create within ourselves with “wonderful thoughts of [God’s] kindness” and reminded us “of God’s sweetness and love, his grace and mercy.” But unless we turned a deaf ear to this pious clamor, we would be back where we started. 100 In the meantime, the apprentice must continue with his prayers, liturgy, and lectio divina like everybody else. This was not what Eckhart would have called a special spiritual “way” but was a practice that should inform all the routine devotions and spiritual exercises of the Christian life. If we persevere, the intellect will eventually abdicate and allow love to take over. Here we see the new separation of knowledge from the affections: “Therefore I will leave on one side everything I can think, and choose for my love that which I cannot think!” the author exclaims. “Why? Because [God] may well be loved but not thought. By love he may be caught and held but by thinking never.” 101 But the apophatic habit is still so strong that the author immediately starts to deconstruct the notion of “love” and explain what it is not. There is no glow, no heavenly music, or interior sweetness in the Cloud. In fact the author seems to have Rolle in mind when he comes out strongly against the idea of an intense experience of God’s love. He warns beginners to be on their guard against the absurd literalism of this new spirituality. Novices hear talk of all kinds of special feelings— “how a man shall lift up his heart to God and continually long to feel his love. And immediately in their silly minds they understand these words not in the intended spiritual sense but in a physical and material, and they strain their natural hearts outrageously within their breasts!” Some even feel an “unnatural glow.” 102 It is impossible to feel for God the love we feel for creatures; the “God” with whom these so-called mystics are infatuated is simply the product of their unhinged imagination. Clearly this “sham spirituality” 103 was becoming a problem. When novices are told to stop all “exterior” mental activity, the author explains, they don’t know what “interior” work means, so “they do it wrong. For they turn their actual physical minds inwards to their bodies, which is an unnatural thing, and they strain as if to see spiritually with their physical eyes.” 104 Their antics are painful to behold. They stare into space, looking quite deranged, squat “as if they were silly sheep,” and “hang their heads to one side as if they had a worm in their ear.” 105 But “interiority” is achieved only by the discipline of “forgetting.”

• From City of Night (1963)

  Outside again, I recognized the ovaled fairy who had made it with me that first day in New Orleans; he is a freckled schoolboy, with a lollypop. With him is his youngman-lover who had turned femme—and he is, resignedly perhaps, a schoolgirl: bloomers peeking, ruffled, from beneath the starched skirt. “Tramp!” the ovaled one sneers at me—and he skipped quickly away as if I would menace or contaminate them. Past the giant burlesque picture of Holly Sand on Bourbon. And I imagine her making quite a breeze, creating quite a storm, fanning waves of flesh-desire (to go all the way), and the poster of Aloha twirled giant mechanical breasts like windmills— whoosh! and around; whoosh! and around.... I look about me searching Burlesque street, L.A. Instead, I see the costumed orgy of Mardi Gras. “Lover!” A fat woman embraces me tightly. We kiss. Now I turn to a young girl near me, shes dressed in a leopard suit I kiss her too, pushing my tongue urgently into her mouth, crushing her mouth—as if to erase from my own the stamp of Jeremy’s remembered kiss.... The sky has darkened. The streetlights, turned on now, will prolong the naked street merriment to midnight. Tomorrow, I keep thinking. Tomorrow... When Ash Wednesday will hang like a pall over this city. “Lets make it, man!” Sonny shouted into my ear, his lips so near they brushed my face. Still shirtless, he embraced me drunkenly while the two suited scores hes still with look on disapprovingly. “Later,” I said dazedly, taking the pill he slipped into my hand. “Later....” The Cathedral is solemn like a tomb. I think groggily: Dave.... The man on the beach, now somewhere in this city.... Lance, Pete, Mr King.... Miss Destiny. Skipper.... Jeremy. Each in his own way.... Each in his own way what? And Barbara. And Jocko in his way.... What! Nothing, I thought. “Nothing!” I said aloud, as face blends with hunting face. “Honey,” said Whorina, “youre twisted out of your swinging mind. Whatve you been taking? Here. I got something thatll straighten you out.” She hands me a strange pill which looks like a raisin. She says: “Nothing like it, honey, You Just Wait and See.” I pop it into my mouth and hurl myself back into the crowd. Although the star-tossed sky is clear—as if to reveal the city, Naked, to the sight of Heaven—I hope it will begin to snow suddenly: a sheet of snow covering this city drowning the shrieking colors.... The ice age of the heart.... But I forget about that quickly, forget about the snow which would purify the city.... In the courtyard of The Rocking Times, moments later, I saw Kathy. Still with Jocko as if he can protect her from something shadowing her, she smiles as she stares at the mobs.