Contentment

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 Girls & Sex (2016)

  In between drinks, the group chatted, texted friends, and posted selfies to Instagram, always looking carefully around to make sure no liquor was visible in the frame (all of them were underage). “It doesn’t happen unless it happens on Instagram!” Megan told me, only half-joking. Each of them had a few stock expressions they could call up on command: a sexy chin drop, a “this is my friend and I love her” smile, an open-mouthed “aren’t I crazy and having fun” face. The boys clowned around, striking the classic “sorority squat” pose. One of them checked his feed. “I only have one ‘like,’” he complained. “By now I should have forty-seven!” They spent at least half their time together engrossed in their individual screens. I doubt they realized how often they referenced gender, whether it was when a boy called a female high school classmate “all Christian during the day and slutty at night,” or during a good-natured argument over which sex ultimately pays more for a frat party: the brothers, who buy all the liquor, or the girls, who have the “upkeep” of hair, nails, clothes, shoes, and makeup. The girls reminded the boys that their cost wasn’t only monetary. “Like, we have to remove our hair everywhere,” one said. “No razors below the neck for me,” answered a boy, laughing. “And okay,” said another girl, “we have to walk in five-inch heels.” At that, the boys conceded. The girls had won, if you call that winning. They talked, too, about the collateral damage of the party scene: a girl they knew who was bulimic; another who was in rehab; the frats that had been kicked off campus; the drunk boy who tried, with tragic results, to do a backflip off a bar. The song “Blurred Lines” came up on the playlist, with its hooky, contentious chorus, “I know you want it, I know you want it.” Megan bobbed her head in time to the beat, seemingly indifferent to the lyrics.

• From Amplified Holy Bible (2015)

  37 But the man who stands firmly committed in his heart, having no compulsion [to yield to his daughter’s request], and has authority over his own will, and has decided in his own heart to keep his own virgin [daughter from being married], he will do well. 38 So then both the father who gives his virgin daughter in marriage does well, and he who does not give her in marriage will do better. 39 A wife is bound [to her husband by law] as long as he lives. But if her husband dies, she is free to marry whomever she wishes, only [provided that he too is] in the Lord. 40 But in my opinion a widow is happier if she stays as she is. And I think that I also have the Spirit of God [in this matter]. 1 Corinthians 8 Take Care with Your Liberty 1 N OW ABOUT food sacrificed to idols, we know that we all have knowledge [concerning this]. Knowledge [alone] makes [people self-righteously] arrogant, but love [that unselfishly seeks the best for others] builds up and encourages others to grow [in wisdom]. 2 If anyone imagines that he knows and understands anything [of divine matters, without love], he has not yet known as he ought to know. 3 But if anyone loves God [with awe-filled reverence, obedience and gratitude], he is known by Him [as His very own and is greatly loved]. 4 In this matter, then, of eating food offered to idols, we know that an idol is nothing in the world [it has no real existence], and that there is no God but one. [Deut 6:4 ] 5 For even if there are so-called gods, whether in heaven or on earth, as indeed there are many gods and many lords, 6 yet for us there is but one God, the Father, a who is the source of all things, and we exist for Him; and one Lord, Jesus Christ, by whom are all things [that have been created], and we [believers exist and have life and have been redeemed] through Him. [Mal 2:10 ] 7 However, not all [believers] have this knowledge. But some, being accustomed [throughout their lives] to [thinking of] the idol until now [as real and living], still eat food b as if it were sacrificed to an idol; and because their conscience is weak, it is defiled (guilty, ashamed). 8 Now food will not commend us to God nor bring us close to Him; we are no worse off if we do not eat, nor are we better if we do eat. 9 Only be careful that this liberty of yours [this power to choose] does not somehow become a stumbling block [that is, a temptation to sin] to the weak [in conscience].

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

  On a Day of Atonement which fell on a Sabbath, he was riding his horse before the Temple, and he heard a voice coming forth from the Temple, saying, '"Return, 0 faithless children", except for Elisha b. Abuya, who knew my strength and rebelled against me.' 168 As Urbach notes, this is the case of one who not only sinned but led others astray, and such are given no opportunity for repentance (Aboth 5.18). We should also note that Elisha b. Abuya is here taken as the classical case of one who 'cast off the yoke': he knowingly and wilfully persisted in transgression. Summary We are now in a position to see the overall pattern of Rabbinic religion as it applied to Israelites (proselytes and righteous Gentiles will be considered below). The pattern is this: God has chosen Israel and Israel has accepted the election. In his role as King, God gave Israel commandments which they are to obey as best they can. Obedience is rewarded and disobedience pun- ished. In case of failure to obey, however, man has recourse to divinely ordained means of atonement, in all of which repentance is required. As long as he maintains his desire to stay in the covenant, he has a share in God's covenantal promises, including life in the world to come. The intention and effort to be obedient constitute the condition for remaining in the covenant, but they do not earn it. This general understanding of religion, although not systematically developed, in fact lies behind all the Tannaitic literature. It accounts for the principal emphases in that literature, as well as for apparent contradictions on crucial points. It appears to have informed the religious thinking of the Tannaim consistently and thoroughly. Any other mode of religion doubtless would have appeared to them as unbiblical, not in accord with the revelation of God's will in the Torah. Only by overlooking this large pattern can the 166 lfazal, pp. 41of. (ET, p. 465). 167 Sifre Num. 136 (183; to 3.29). 168 P. Hagigah 77h (2 r). Salvation by membership in the covenant and atonement Rabbis be made to appear as legalists in the narrow and pejorative sense of the word. Their legalism falls within a larger context of gracious election and assured salvation. In discussing disobedience and obedience, punishment and reward, they were not dealing with how man is saved, but with how man should act and how God will act within the framework of the covenant. Within that framework, they were determined to understand and obey God's commands as best they could, but they did not think that they earned their place in the covenant by the number of mitsvot fulfilled.

• From Henry Miller on Writing (1964)

  But the poison I spoke of…. The poison was that anybody or anything could unseat me from my happiness, my deep, natural inner happiness. I did not want to be a wobbly, as other men. To sway from joy to despair. The day I came upon that passage in Nijinsky where he says: “I want everyone to be like me,” I nearly jumped out of my skin. They could have been my own words. Must one be a complete solipsist or a madman to speak thus? Often I have asked myself the question. Naturally it wasn’t identity that Nijinsky wanted; he didn’t want to see ten billion Nijinskys all about him. No. He wanted them to be filled with his divine, radiant, out-going spirit. Is that not it? Was there any harm in that? All my rebelliousness, all this crazy tampering with the world, the divine set-up, or rather the man-made set-up, for it was the human, never the cosmic woes, which disturbed me, spring from my failure to comprehend what people meant—and by people I mean parents, sweethearts, friends, counselors—when they urged me to do this or that, become this or that. Let me be, was all I wanted. Be what I am, no matter how I am. Why is it that at this moment, and I have thought it a thousand times to myself, I always summon as proof of the foregoing this image—of myself as a little boy going down into the street to play, having no fixed purpose, no particular direction, no especial friend to seek out, but just divinely content to be going down into the street to meet whatever might come. In the most bitter arguments, with women, something like this thought always crept in. As though I was yelling my head off to put this simple thought into their heads—“I find life so simple, so good, so easy … why must you complicate it?” Or if they said, as they often did—“But how do I know you love me?”—I would become tongue-tied. Such a preposterous accusation to make against me. As if I did not love them! Only, I also loved others too…. Not in the way they meant, but in a natural wholesome easy way. Like one loves garlic, honey, wild strawberries. One must not love in this wide, indiscriminate way. One must not have friends who also happen to be traitors, thieves or what not. One must not enjoy a bad movie as much as a good movie. And so on. Clear? Serenity is when you get above all this, when it doesn’t matter what they think, say or want, but when you do as you are, and see God and Devil as one. Then you stop writing, of course.

• From Every Woman's Battle: Discovering God's Plan for Sexual and Emotional Fulfillment (2003)

  When I’ve asked women what hinders them from making the effort to run away for a retreat with the Lord, the three most common answers I received have been lack of time, lack of finances, and lack of help with the house and kids. If running away with God is something that you really want to do, you’ll get creative enough to make it happen. For instance, if you feel you don’t have a weekend for time alone with God, ask Him to show you ways to reprioritize to make some extended time available during the week, even if it’s only a few hours. We all have the same twenty-four hours in a day, and He’ll help you carve out time for such a high priority. If you can’t afford to spend money, be creative about how to get some time away. I often ask some people in our church to use their lake house for a few days during the week, and I take my own food or I fast during those days. If you feel you can’t go away and retreat with the Lord because of household and parenting responsibilities, try explaining to your husband that you will be a much better wife and mommy if you have this time to yourself to spend with God. (My husband encourages me to go on these sabbaticals when I get out of sorts!) If you are a single mom and you cannot recruit sufficient assistance from other relatives, make a deal with a friend in a similar situation. Schedule two different weekends or other occasions when the two of you will swap houses. On the first weekend, you and your kids go to her house to keep her children and tend to her chores while she enjoys time alone with God at your house. Make it wonderful for her by putting wildflowers in a vase and some fresh fruit on the table. Stock the bathroom with bubble bath, some facial scrub, and a sweet-smelling candle. Leave a mint on the pillow and some relaxing CDs in the bedroom. Then when it is your turn, she’ll take care of your house and kids and treat you to a getaway at her house with God. While it’s tempting to send your kids away and stay home, I have found that this never works as well because I get distracted by the mounds of laundry, rampant dust bunnies, and stacks of mail. So go somewhere. Offer to house-sit for people. If you are adventurous, go camping. Get away from the normal surroundings and routines and have a refreshing new experience with the Lord.

• From Real Life (2020)

  Le labo est lumineux et silencieux. Il se penche sur le côté pour examiner l’enfilade de salles et ne trouve personne. À l’autre bout, juste une ombre bleutée, immobile. Le moment de la journée où les autres passent au second plan, où il n’y a plus que lui dans le calme, et le monde dehors est vaste, bleu et magnifique. Dehors, il y a des oiseaux sur le sapin de l’autre côté de la rue. De petits oiseaux brun foncé qui se promènent en battant des ailes vers le sommet. Comme ça doit être étrange, d’être un oiseau, se dit Wallace. D’avoir le monde sous soi, cette inversion de l’échelle ; ce qui est petit devient grand, ce qui est grand devient petit, et un oiseau peut se déplacer où il veut dans l’espace, aucune dimension n’est pour lui impossible à conquérir. Il est un peu soulagé de se retrouver seul. Les autres reviendront à la nuit tombée, descendant telle une volée noire sur le bâtiment pour poursuivre leurs expériences et faire aboutir leurs projets par petites touches laborieuses. Ce silence est en fait un amas de bruits. Les protestations des agitateurs tels les cris d’un peuple en rébellion. Dans ce bâtiment, il est en infériorité numérique. Mais le bruit l’apaise, en un sens. Très jeune, Wallace laissait son ventilateur allumé en permanence, même l’hiver, car son rythme régulier lui facilitait la vie. Quand il l’orientait vers le mur, on aurait dit le son de l’océan, ou le murmure du ruisseau lorsqu’on l’approchait par le sud en traversant la forêt de pins à la lisière de la ferme de ses grands-parents. C’était avec cet accompagnement qu’il faisait ses devoirs de maths et de sciences, et il avait progressé jusqu’à devenir le meilleur élève de tout l’Alabama pour les longues divisions de tête et les estimations du poids d’une boule de bowling en système métrique. Avec le ventilateur allumé dans sa chambre, il ne pouvait pas entendre ses parents en train de s’engueuler pour savoir qui avait pris la dernière Natural Light dans le frigo, qui avait mangé le dernier morceau de poulet frit ou qui avait laissé cramer les haricots verts sur le feu, laissant un résidu calciné impossible à gratter au fond de leur unique casserole. Il ne pouvait pas entendre son frère avec sa copine dans la chambre voisine, les coups réguliers contre son mur, noyés par la clameur marine. Il pouvait, si la fenêtre était ouverte, entendre les aboiements des chiens sauvages dans les bois, leurs jappements solitaires et leurs hurlements qui s’échappaient des fourrés tels des fantômes ou des oiseaux. Il pouvait entendre les coups de carabine et leur écho, l’explosion des boîtes de conserve jetées dans le bidon en métal où l’on faisait des flambées dans les arrière-cours.

• From Another Country (1962)

  He pushed out of his mind all of the questions he wanted to ask her. It was beginning to be chilly on the balcony; he was hungry and he wanted a drink and he wanted to get home to bed. “Well,” he said, at last, “I ain’t going to hurt you,” and he rose, walking to the edge of the balcony. His shorts were like a rope between his legs, he pulled them up, and felt that he was glued inside them. He zipped up his fly, holding his legs wide apart. The sky had faded down to purple. The stars were gone and the lights on the Jersey shore were out. A coal barge traveled slowly down the river. “How do I look?” she asked him. “Fine,” he said, and she did. She looked like a tired child. “You want to come down to my place?” “If you want me to,” she said. “Well, yes, that’s what I want.” But he wondered why he was holding on to her. Vivaldo came by late the next afternoon to find Rufus still in bed and Leona in the kitchen making breakfast. It was Leona who opened the door. And Rufus watched with delight the slow shock on Vivaldo’s face as he looked from Leona, muffled in Rufus’ bathrobe, to Rufus, sitting up in bed, and naked except for the blankets. Let the liberal white bastard squirm, he thought. “Hi, baby,” he called, “come on in. You just in time for breakfast.” “I’ve had my breakfast,” Vivaldo said, “but you people aren’t even decent yet. I’ll come back later.” “Shit, man, come on in. That’s Leona. Leona, this here’s a friend of mine, Vivaldo. For short. His real name is Daniel Vivaldo Moore. He’s an Irish wop.” “Rufus is just full of prejudice against everybody,” said Leona, and smiled. “Come on in.” Vivaldo closed the door behind him awkwardly and sat down on the edge of the bed. Whenever he was uncomfortable—which was often—his arms and legs seemed to stretch to monstrous proportions and he handled them with bewildered loathing, as though he had been afflicted with them only a few moments before. “I hope you can eat something ,” Leona said. “There’s plenty and it’ll be ready in just a second.” “I’ll have a cup of coffee with you,” Vivaldo said, “unless you happen to have some beer.” Then he looked over at Rufus. “I guess it was quite a party.” Rufus grinned. “Not bad, not bad.” Leona opened some beer and poured it into a tumbler and brought it to Vivaldo. He took it, looking up at her with his quick, gypsy smile, and spilled some on one foot. “You want some, Rufus?” “No, honey, not yet. I’ll eat first.” Leona walked back into the kitchen. “Ain’t she a splendid specimen of Southern womanhood?”

• From Henry Miller on Writing (1964)

  Never the ego, rest assured. Nor do I give a damn about that. I certainly do not hope to alter the world. Perhaps I can put it best by saying that I hope to alter my own vision of the world. I want to be more and more myself, ridiculous as that may sound. Where the writing is concerned, I did nothing consciously. I followed my nose. I blew with every wind. I accepted every influence, good or bad. My intention was, as I said, merely to write. Or, to be a writer , more justly. Well, I’ve been it. Now I just want—to be. Remember, I beg you, that this infinitive is “transitive” in Chinese. And I am nothing if not Chinese. Does this help? If not, walk on—and over me. Henry Next day—April 2nd It’s pouring and I feel like saying a bit more…. Those fan letters I spoke of. If someone had the courage to publish these, volume after volume, what a broadside that would be. And how revealing! Here are the books which readers say have influenced them, enlarged their outlook on life, altered their being: The Colossus, Capricorn, Cancer, Wisdom of the Heart— primarily. But there are others in which I believe I have given most revelatory passages: The Books in My Life, Rimbaud , the Hamlet letters, even Aller Retour New York . And in “The Brooklyn Bridge”—where is that?—I am astounded each time I read it by what I have said “unknowingly.” There is another too, quite important: The World of Sex . No one has ever written me against this book—or The Colossus . Curious, what! When I speak of Books in My Life and the Rimbaud , I mean the passages about youth, as in the Rider Haggard chapter and the last chapter, called “The Theatre,” where I dwell on the Xerxes Society days. Myself I like Plexus very much, not for the revelatory this time, but for the fantastic bits—about Stanley, about Mimi Aguglia and what follows, about John Brown, and Picodiribibi. Enough…. What I can never write enough about are the “influences”—both men, haphazard meetings, books, places. Places have affected me as much or more than people, I think. (I find it the same with you here.) Think of my repeated journeys to Toulouse, or of the returns to the old neighborhood (the 14th Ward), or to the places where as a boy I spent my summer vacations, or to the regions in America where I dreamed things my own way, only to find them so otherwise. Strange that I never think of the afterlife this way! Dear old Devachan, which Fred and Edgar and I spoke of so often. All I see there is a breathing spell, another “open” womb, so to speak, where all the senses and the intellect are intensified, clarified, unobstructed—and one learns just by looking, looking back at one’s meager, pitiable self in action.

• From Another Country (1962)

  Eric’s coming home.” “Who’s Eric?” Ida asked. “Eric Jones,” Cass said. “He’s an actor friend of ours who’s been living in France for the last couple of years. But he’s been signed to do a play on Broadway this fall.” Vivaldo read. Lee Bronson has signed Eric Jones, who last appeared locally three seasons ago in the short-lived Kingdom of the Blind, for the role of the elder son in the Lane Smith drama , Happy Hunting Ground, which opens here in November . “Son of a bitch,” said Vivaldo, looking very pleased. He turned to Cass. “Have you heard from him?” “Oh, no,” said Cass, “not for a very long time.” “It’ll be nice to see him again,” Vivaldo said. He looked at Ida. “You’ll like him. Rufus knew him, we were all very good friends.” He folded the paper and dropped it on the bar. “Everybody’s famous, goddamnit, except me.” Richard came into the room, looking harried and boyish, wearing an old gray sweater over a white T-shirt and carrying his belt in his hands. “It’s easy to see what you’ve been doing,” said Vivaldo, smiling. “We heard it all the way in here.” Richard looked at the belt shamefacedly and threw it on the sofa. “I didn’t really use it on him. I just made believe I was going to. I probably should have whaled the daylights out of him.” He said to Cass, “What’s the matter with him all of a sudden? He’s never acted like this before. ” “I’ve already told you what I think it is. It’s the new house and kind of new excitement, and he doesn’t see as much of you as he’s used to, and he’s reacted to all of this very badly. He’ll get over it, but it’s going to take a little time.” “Paul’s not like that. Hell, he’s gone out and made friends already. He’s having a ball.” “Richard, Paul and Michael are not at all alike .” He stared at her and shook his head. “That’s true. Sorry.” He turned to Ida and Vivaldo. “Excuse us. We’re fascinated by our offspring. We sometimes sit around and talk about them for hours. Ida, you look wonderful, it’s great to see you.” He took her hand in his, looking into her eyes. “Are you all right?” “I’m fine, Richard. And it’s wonderful to see you . Especially now that you’re such a success.” “Ah, you mustn’t listen to my wife,” he said. He went behind the bar. “Everybody’s got a drink except me, I guess. And I ”—he looked very boyish, very secure and happy—“am going to have a dry martini on the rocks.” He opened the ice bucket. “Only, there aren’t any rocks.” “I’ll get you some ice,” Cass said. She put her drink on the bar and picked up the ice bucket. “You know, I think we’re going to have to buy some ice from the delicatessen.” “Well, I’ll go down and do that later, chicken.”

• From Another Country (1962)

  Vivaldo grinned. “Let’s make the most of it, baby. Let’s go and get drunk.” “I don’t want to go back into Benno’s,” Eric said. “Let’s go on over to my place, I’ve got some liquor.” “Okay,” said Vivaldo, “I’d just as soon see you pass out at your place as have to drag you to your place.” He grinned at Eric. “I’m very glad to see you,” he said. They started toward Eric’s house. “Yes, I’ve wanted to see you,” said Eric, “but”—they looked at each other briefly, and both smiled —“we’ve been kept pretty busy.” Vivaldo laughed. “Good men, and true,” he said. “I certainly hope that Cass isn’t as—unpredictable—as Ida can be.” “Hell,” said Eric, “I hope that you’re not as unpredictable as I am.” Vivaldo smiled, but said nothing. The streets were very dark and still. On a side street, there stood a lone city tree on which the moonlight gleamed. “We’re all unpredictable,” he finally said, “one way or another. I wouldn’t like you to think that you’re special.” “It’s very hard to live with that,” said Eric. “I mean, with the sense that one is never what one seems—never—and yet, what one seems to be is probably, in some sense, almost exactly what one is.” He turned his half-smiling face to Vivaldo. “Do you know what I mean?” “I wish I didn’t,” said Vivaldo, slowly, “but I’m afraid I do.” Eric’s building was on a street with trees, westbound, not far from the river. It was very quiet except for the noise coming from two taverns, one on either far corner. Eric had visited each of them once. “One of them’s gay,” he said, “and what a cemetery that is. The other one’s for longshoremen, and that’s pretty deadly, too. The longshoremen never go to the gay bar and the gay boys never go to the longshoremen’s bar—but they know where to find each other when the bars close, all up and down this street. It all seems very sad to me, but maybe I’ve been away too long. I don’t go for back-alley cock-sucking. I think sin should be fun.” Vivaldo laughed, but thought, with wonder and a little fear, My God, he has changed. He never talked like this before.

• From Real Life (2020)

  J’avais peur que tu dises non. J’avais peur d’avoir envie que tu dises oui ? Je ne sais pas. Merde . » Vincent a les yeux humides. Il est au bord des larmes. Wallace se sent coupable, maintenant – une vraie culpabilité, âpre et coupante. Il déglutit. Lui aussi, il a les yeux qui le piquent. Déjà, Cole pleure doucement, tapotant sa jambe avec sa main. « Pourquoi je ne suffis pas ? — Ça n’a rien à voir avec ça », dit Roman. Cole se tourne vers lui et réplique. « La ferme, Roman. Ce n’est pas à toi que je parle. » Roman a l’air surpris. Il se radosse à sa chaise. « Vous êtes en public, là, les gars. Je trouvais ça naturel d’imaginer que vous vouliez des avis. — On peut avoir une minute pour parler de notre couple sans que tu sois là à vouloir fourrer ta bite au milieu ? — Ah voilà qu’on reprend un peu du poil de la bête, super, commente Roman, applaudissant plus fort cette fois. Voilà qu’on se comporte enfin comme un homme. Mais quand même un conseil. Si tu ne veux pas que quelqu’un d’autre baise ton mec, tu devrais peut-être t’en charger, toi. — Qu’est-ce qu’il raconte, Vincent ? — Non, non, non », s’écrie Vincent, enfouissant son visage dans ses mains. « Non, non, non. Dites-moi que c’est un mauvais rêve. — Vincent, de quoi il parle ? — Merde. Merde. » Klaus est rouge brique de colère, et jette des regards orageux à Roman, qui s’est remis à manger. « Putain de merde », fait Miller. Emma s’est levée pour passer les bras autour des épaules de Cole, qui fixe Vincent. « Chéri, chéri, dit Emma. Viens, chéri. » Elle masse le dos de Cole, et insiste pour le faire lever de table et la suivre quelque part, n’importe où. Wallace n’essaie même pas de se dédouaner de son rôle dans toute l’affaire. Il est probable que Cole ne lui pardonnera jamais, mais de fait, Wallace lui a donné ce dont il avait besoin, mais qu’il n’était pas capable de réclamer lui-même, et n’est-ce pas pour cette raison que Cole l’avait invité ? Oui, il a réagi par mesquinerie, par désir de voir quelqu’un d’autre se faire rabaisser, mais en définitive, ne s’est-il pas produit une chose capitale ? Il regarde à sa gauche. Vincent sanglote dans ses mains et Cole le fixe comme un obélisque vide. Roman et Klaus, furieux se coupent la parole en anglais et en allemand. Le dîner est gâché, ça, au moins, c’est évident, mais Wallace continue de manger parce qu’il a faim. Il mange la soupe, même s’il y a trop de tomate.

• From Another Country (1962)

  “I’ll get you some ice,” Cass said. She put her drink on the bar and picked up the ice bucket. “You know, I think we’re going to have to buy some ice from the delicatessen.” “Well, I’ll go down and do that later, chicken.” He pinched her cheek. “Don’t worry.” Cass left the room. Richard grinned at Vivaldo. “If you hadn’t got here today, I swore I was just going to cut you out of my heart forever.” “You knew I’d be here.” He raised his glass. “Congratulations.” Then, “What’s this I hear about all the TV networks just crying for you?” “Don’t exaggerate. There’s just one producer who’s got some project he wants to talk to me about, I don’t even know what it is. But my agent thinks I should see him.” Vivaldo laughed. “Don’t sound so defensive. I like TV.” “You’re a liar. You haven’t even got a TV set.” “Well, that’s just because I’m poor. When I get to be a success like you, I’ll go out and buy me the biggest screen on the market.” He watched Richard’s face and laughed again. “I’m just teasing you.” “Yeah. Ida, see what you can do to civilize this character. He’s a barbarian. “I know,” Ida said, sadly, “but I hardly know what to do about it. Of course,” she added, “if you were to offer me an autographed copy of your book, I might come up with an inspiration.” “It’s a deal,” Richard said. Cass came back with the ice bucket and Richard took it from her and set it on the bar. He mixed his drink. Then he joined them on the other side of the bar and put his arm around Cass’ shoulders. “To the best Saturday we’ve ever had,” he said, and raised his glass. “May there be many more.” He took a large swallow of his drink. “I love you all,” he said. “We love you, too,” said Vivaldo. Cass kissed Richard on the cheek. “Before I go and try to salvage lunch—tell me, just what kind of arrangement did you make with Michael? Just so I’ll know.” “He’s taking a nap. I promised to wake him in time for cocktails. We have to buy him some ginger ale.” “And Paul?” “Oh, Paul. He’ll tear himself away from his cronies in time to come upstairs and get washed and meet the people. Wild horses wouldn’t keep him away.” He turned to Vivaldo. “He’s been bragging about me all over the house.” Cass watched him for a moment. “Very well managed. And now I leave you.” Ida picked up her glass. “Wait a minute. I’m coming with you.” “You don’t have to, Ida. I can do it.”

• From Another Country (1962)

  I don’t remember. Anyway, since they’d been here so long the rent hadn’t gone up much, you know? So it’s really a lot cheaper than most things like this in the city.” She looked over at Ida. “You know, you look wonderful, you really do. I’m so glad to see you.” “I’m glad to see you,” said Ida, “and I feel fine, I feel better than I’ve felt, oh, in years.” She crossed to the bar, and stood facing Cass. “Look like you people done got serious about your drinking, too,” she said, in a raucous, whiskey voice. “Let me have a taste of that there Cutty Sark.” Cass laughed, “I thought you were a bourbon woman.” She dropped some ice in a glass. “When it comes to liquor,” Ida said, “I’s anybody’s woman.” And she laughed, looking exactly like a little girl. “Let me have some water in that, sugar, I don’t want to get carried away here this afternoon.” She looked toward Vivaldo, who stood on the steps, watching her. She leaned toward Cass. “Honey, who’s that funny-looking number standing in the do’way?” “Oh, he drops by from time to time. He always looks that way. He’s harmless. ” “I’ll have the same thing the lady’s drinking,” said Vivaldo, and joined them at the bar. “Well, I’m glad you told me he’s harmless,” Ida said, and winked at him, and drummed her long fingernails on the bar. “I’ll have a short drink with you,” said Cass, “and then I’m simply going to have to vanish. I’ve got to finish fixing lunch—and we have to eat it—and I’m not even dressed yet.” “Well, I’ll help you in the kitchen,” Ida said. “What time are all these other people coming over?” “About five, I guess. There’s this TV producer coming, he’s supposed to be very bright and liberal—Steve Ellis, does that sound right?—” “Oh, yes,” said Ida, “he’s supposed to be very good, that man. He’s very well known.” She mentioned a show of his she had seen some months ago, which utilized Negroes, and which had won a great many awards. “Wow.” She wiggled her shoulders. “Who else is coming?” “Well. Ellis. And Richard’s editor. And some other writer whose name I can’t remember. And I guess they’re bringing their wives.” She sipped her drink, looking rather weary. “I can’t imagine why we’re doing this. I guess it’s mainly on account of the TV man. But Richard’s publishers are giving Richard a small party Monday—in their offices—and he could just as well see all those people then.” “Buck up, old girl,” said Vivaldo. “You’re just going to have to get used to it.” “I expect so.” She gave them a quick, mischievous grin, and whispered, “But they seem so silly—! those I’ve met. And they’re so serious , they just shine with it.” Vivaldo laughed. “That’s treason, Cass.

• From Confessions of the Flesh (The History of Sexuality, Vol. 4) (2021)

  3. Nourishing. “Brilliant companion who participates in God’s pastorate, who takes care of the country and nourishes it, shepherd of abundance.”48 The shepherd is not one who levies taxes, or accumulates treasures. His role is to make the animals prosper by giving them more than enough to drink and eat. He makes life abundant, not in the very broad sense where good governments enrich the state, but in the precise sense that he ensures, head by head, the maintenance of all: “Because of your beneficent mouth, O my shepherd, all the people look anxiously to you.”49 He is a nurturing principle. The sophists, and Thrasymachus with them, were mistaken in believing that the shepherd’s power was self-seeking, like any other, only concerned “night and day” with utilizing the animals for his benefit—good eating or a profitable market; “what they imagined was not a shepherd.” The latter must be concerned only with procuring the best possible conditions for the flock.50 A curse, too, on the kings of Israel who did not think first and only of their people: “Woe to you shepherds of Israel who only take care of yourselves! Should not shepherds take care of the flock?”51 The shepherd’s relation with his sheep has three characteristics, then: by its desired objective, it must be productive of abundance—or at least of life or survival; by its form it is on the side of zeal, application, potentially of worry and sorrow;52 finally, its effect is in a sort of overall identification between the plumpness of the flock that one takes nothing from and the wealth of a shepherd who thinks only of them. Power over…seems to turn into an attention to…that justifies and ends up enveloping all its effects of authority.53

• From Another Country (1962)

  By and by, he was still. He rose, and went to the bathroom and washed his face, and then sat down at his work table. She put on a record by Mahalia Jackson, In the Upper Room, and sat at the window, her hands in her lap, looking out over the sparkling streets. Much, much later, while he was still working and she slept, she turned in her sleep, and she called his name. He paused, waiting, staring at her, but she did not move again, or speak again. He rose, and walked to the window. The rain had ceased, in the black-blue sky a few stars were scattered, and the wind roughly jostled the clouds along.

• From Real Life (2020)

  Sous la peau apparaissent des filets de graisse épais et bulbeux. Le maïs est bon. Sucré, un peu huileux. « Tu es déjà allé à Yosemite ? » demande Zoe à Miller au bout de la table. « Non. — Avec des amis, on fait un truc presque tous les ans – on essaie de se faire le maximum de parcs nationaux en un été. Mais Yosemite, c’est vraiment mon préféré. Mes parents nous y emmenaient tous les ans, mon frère moi. — J’ai fait Glacier, il y a quelques semaines, fait Yngve. Avec Enid. — C’était comment ? demande Zoe. — Magnifique, bien sûr », répond Enid. Enid et Zoe se ressemblent un peu, remarque Wallace. Sauf qu’Enid est très pâle. Elle a les cheveux teints en gris/lilas. Elle a un piercing dans le nez, et son épaule est couverte de tatouages angulaires, de grands zigzags noirs. Pas des signes tribaux, une géométrie de l’identité, se dit Wallace. « Mais je me suis pratiquement cassé le pied, donc ça a été bref. — Je suis resté trois jours de plus », précise Yngve. Les lèvres d’Enid se serrent quand elle hoche la tête, comme si ce geste lui coûtait. « C’est que je n’ai pas beaucoup de vacances, et pour moi, c’était un voyage important. — Glacier, c’est un très beau parc, fait Zoe. Pas cette année. Celle d’avant. — Je ne suis jamais allé dans un parc national, fait Miller. — Moi non plus », renchérit Wallace. Ils se tournent vers lui, comme s’ils prenaient brusquement conscience du fait qu’il écoute leur conversation depuis le début. Il baisse les yeux sur son assiette et tente de se faire tout petit, mais c’est trop tard. Il a loupé son ouverture. Miller rit. « Ça peut être intimidant, trop gros, fait Zoe. C’est vrai, quoi, parc national ça ne fait pas très engageant, comme expression. Mais… je ne sais pas, c’est quelque chose, de se retrouver dans ce genre de paysage, juste soi et la nature, avec pas de réseau. C’est comme repartir de zéro. — C’est pour ça que je suis allé faire de l’escalade quand mon grand-père est mort, explique Yngve. Il n’y a que toi et les rochers. Toi et le ciel. Toi, et tout ce qui compte, c’est : est-ce que je peux encore monter de quinze centimètres sans mourir ?

• From Another Country (1962)

  The crowd was already thinning, most of the squares were beginning to drift away. Once they were gone, the party would change character and become very pleasant and quiet and private. The lights would go down, the music become softer, the talk more sporadic and more sincere. Somebody might sing or play the piano. They might swap stories of the laughs they’d had, gigs they’d played, riffs they remembered, or the trouble they’d seen. Somebody might break out with some pot and pass it slowly around, like the pipe of peace. Somebody, curled on a rug in a far corner of the room, would begin to snore. Whoever danced would dance more languorously, holding tight. The shadows of the room would be alive. Toward the very end, as morning and the brutal sounds of the city began their invasion through the wide French doors, somebody would go into the kitchen and break out with some coffee. Then they would raid the icebox and go home. The host and hostess would finally make it between their sheets and stay in bed all day. From time to time Rufus found himself glancing upward at the silver ball in the ceiling, always just failing to find himself and Leona reflected there. “Let’s go out to the balcony,” he said to her. She held out her glass. “Freshen my drink first?” Her eyes were now very bright and mischievous and she looked like a little girl. He walked to the table and poured two very powerful drinks. He went back to her. “Ready?” She took her glass and they stepped through the French doors. “Don’t let Little Eva catch cold!” the host called. He called back. “She may burn, baby, but she sure won’t freeze!” Directly before and beneath them stretched the lights of the Jersey shore. He seemed, from where he stood, to hear a faint murmur coming from the water. When a child he had lived on the eastern edge of Harlem, a block from the Harlem River. He and other children had waded into the water from the garbage-heavy bank or dived from occasional rotting promontories. One summer a boy had drowned there. From the stoop of his house Rufus had watched as a small group of people crossed Park Avenue, beneath the heavy shadow of the railroad tracks, and come into the sun, one man in the middle, the boy’s father, carrying the boy’s unbelievably heavy, covered weight. He had never forgotten the bend of the man’s shoulders or the stunned angle of his head. A great screaming began from the other end of the block and the boy’s mother, her head tied up, wearing her bathrobe, stumbling like a drunken woman, began running toward the silent people. He threw back his shoulders, as though he were casting off a burden, and walked to the edge of the balcony where Leona stood. She was staring up the river, toward the George Washington Bridge.

• From Another Country (1962)

  He took her like a boy, with that singlemindedness, and with a boy’s passion to please: and she had awakened something in him, an animal long caged, which came pounding out of its captivity now with a fury which astounded and transfigured them both. Eventually, he slept on her breast, like a child. She watched him, watched his parted lips and the crooked teeth dully gleaming, and the thin, silver trickle of saliva, flowing on to her; and watched the tiny pulsations in the vein of one arm, the red hairs gleaming on it, thrown heavily across her hip; one leg was thrust out behind him, one knee pointed toward her; the little finger of the hand farthest from her, on the edge of the bed, palm upward, twitched; his sex and his belly were hidden. She looked at her watch. It was ten past one. She would have to go home and she was relieved to discover that she was apprehensive, but not guilty. She really felt that a weight had rolled away, and that she was herself again, in her own skin, for the first time in a long time. She moved slowly out from beneath his weight, kissed his brow and covered him. Then she went into the bathroom and stepped into the shower. She sang to herself in an undertone as the water crashed over her body, and used the towel which smelled of him with joy. She dressed, still humming, and combed her hair. But the pins were on the night table. She came out, to find him sitting up, smoking a cigarette. They smiled at each other. “How are you, baby?” he asked. “I feel wonderful. How are you?” “I feel wonderful, too,” and he laughed, sheepishly. Then, “You have to go?” “Yes. Yes, I do.” She came to the night table and put the pins in her hair. He reached up and pulled her down on the bed and kissed her. It was a strange kiss, in its sad insistence. His eyes seemed to be seeking in her something he had despaired of finding, and did not yet trust. “Will Richard be awake?” “I don’t think so. It doesn’t matter. We’re very seldom together in the evenings; he works, I read, or go out to the movies, or watch TV.” She touched his cheek. “Don’t worry.” “When will I see you?” “Soon. Ill call you.” “Does it matter if I call you? Or would you rather I didn’t?” She hesitated. “It doesn’t matter.” They both thought, It doesn’t matter yet . He kissed her again. “I wish you could spend the night,” he said. He laughed again. “We were just beginning to get started, I hope you know that.” “Oh, yes,” she said, “I can tell.” He placed his rough cheek next to hers. “But I’ve got to go now.” “Shall I walk you to a taxi?” “Oh, Eric, don’t be silly. There’s just no point to that at all.” “I’d like to.

• From Henry Miller on Writing (1964)

  At the same time it is also true that I am going to write still more about sex. I am describing my life in the world of sex. I am recording the death of that world, just as certain mystics have recorded the disappearance of continents and races of men. People will draw conflicting conclusions from my work. That is none of my affair. I too have drawn conflicting conclusions from the experiences I have had. At one and the same moment in time men are living on a thousand different planes. We speak of evolution, as if it were continuous and all-embracing. But in reality we are each of us absolutely isolate and moving within different orbits and developing within definite, unique frames or spheres. Sex galvanizes the individual spheres of being which clash and conflict. It makes the external world in which we are wrapped shed its death-like folds. It affords us glimpses of that stark, durable reality which is neither beneficent nor cruel. We go along thinking the world to be thus and so. We are not thinking, of course, or the picture would be different every moment. When we go along thus we are merely preserving a dead image of a live moment in the past. However … let us say we meet a woman. We enter into her. Everything is changed. What changed? We do not know precisely. It seems as if everything had changed. It might be that we never see the woman again, or it might be that we never separate. She may lead us to hell or she may open the doors of the world for us. Or she may give us the itch to know other women, thousands of women, millions of women. In rare cases she can stop us dead, make us live in her and wish to never look at another woman. Once I saw a picture of Rubens as he looked when he married his young wife. They were portrayed together, he standing beside or behind her as she sat for the portrait. I shall never forget the emotion it inspired in me. I had one long deep look into the world of contentment, a world of mutual understanding, of love, of mature bliss. I felt the vigor of Rubens, then in the prime of his life; I felt the confidence which he breathed in the presence of his very young wife. I felt that some great event had occurred and had been fixed on canvas for eternity. I do not know the story of his life, whether he lived happily ever afterwards with her or not.

• From Another Country (1962)

  They rose and left Benno’s and walked west to Harold’s pad. He lived in a narrow dark street near the river, on the top floor. The climb was discouraging, but the apartment was clean and not too disordered—it was not at all the kind of apartment one would have expected Harold to have—with carpets on the floor and burlap covering the windows. There was a hi-fi set, and records; and science-fiction magazines lay scattered about. Vivaldo flopped down on the narrow couch against the wall, in a kind of alcove formed by two bookcases. Belle sat on the floor near the window. Lorenzo went to the john, then to the kitchen, and returned with a quart bottle of beer. “You forgot to bring glasses,” Belle told him. “So who needs glasses? We’re all friends.” But he obediently returned to the kitchen. Harold, meanwhile, like a meticulous and scientific host, was busily preparing the weed. He seated himself at the coffee table, near Vivaldo, and placed on a sheet of newspaper tweezers, cigarettes, cigarette papers, and a Bull Durham sack full of pot. “It’s great stuff,” he told Vivaldo, “chick brought it in from Mexico only yesterday. And, baby, this shit travels well!” Vivaldo laughed. Lorenzo returned with the glasses and looked worriedly over at Vivaldo. “You feeling all right?” “I feel fine. Just quiet. You know.” “Groovy.” He set a glass of beer carefully on the floor near Vivaldo, and poured a glass for Harold. “He’s going to feel just swinging,” said Harold, as happy and busy as bees, “just as soon as he connects with old Mother Harold’s special recessed filter-tips. Baby! Are you going to wail!” Lorenzo poured a glass of beer for Belle, and set the bottle on the floor beside her. “How about some sides?” “Go, baby.” Vivaldo closed his eyes, feeling an anticipatory languor and lewdness. Lorenzo put on something at once bell-like and doleful, by the Modern Jazz Quartet. “Here.” He looked up. Harold stood above him with a glowing stick. He sat up, smiling vaguely, and carefully picked up his beer from the floor before taking the stick from Harold. Harold watched him, smiling intensely, as he took a long, shaky drag. He took a swallow of his beer and gave the stick back. Harold inhaled deeply and expertly, and rubbed his chest. “Come on over to the window,” Belle called. Her voice sounded high and pleased, like a child’s. And, exactly as though he were responding to a child, Vivaldo, though he preferred to remain alone on the sofa, walked over to the window. Harold followed him. Belle and Lorenzo sat on the floor, sharing a stick between them, and staring out at the New York rooftops. “It’s strange,” Belle said. “It’s so ugly by day and so beautiful at night.” “Let’s go up on the roof,” said Lorenzo. “Oh! What a groovy idea!”