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 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!”

• From Real Life (2020)

  Des canards gras dorment au bout des quais. Wallace passe devant un bâtiment de la résidence universitaire. Il voit des gens danser sur un balcon, profitant de leur week-end. Un grand drapeau blanc à l’effigie de la mascotte de l’université flotte devant la façade, et des hommes se lancent un frisbee sur la petite pelouse. Wallace regarde l’un d’entre eux, un mec grand et pâle, projeter son bras en arrière et jeter le disque jaune dans une position grotesque. Le frisbee commence par vaciller, puis s’installe dans un arc net qui l’emporte au-dessus des têtes d’étudiants installés sur un canapé à fleurs posé sur l’herbe, jusqu’à ce qu’un autre homme, trapu et bru, l’attrape d’un bond. En les observant, Wallace éprouve une sorte de paix. Son tumulte intérieur se calme. Il sent qu’il peut maintenant réfléchir posément. Il se tient sur le gravier jaune du sentier, dos au lac. Des cyclistes le dépassent à toute vitesse, formes assombries par le mouvement. Les buissons grouillent de cris d’animaux allant staccato, et des bateaux voguent sur le lac. Ses amis sont peut-être sur l’un d’eux, il en prend conscience. C’était leur plan pour la journée, après tout : passer les dernières heures d’ensoleillement du week-end ensemble, sur l’eau. Il imagine Yngve et Miller en train de piloter un petit bateau compact jusqu’au centre de l’étendue d’eau, où ils dériveront un moment, laissant les autres boire de petites gorgées de whisky ou de bière, somnolents et ivres dans la chaleur. La paix qu’éprouve Wallace s’approfondit tandis qu’il imagine cette scène, la complète comme un cercle, avec Emma à l’arrière du bateau, jambes croisées, cheveux ébouriffés par le vent. Thom qui lit ou essaie de lire, attrape le mal de mer, fragile et délicat comme il est. Et Miller, regardant l’eau, les yeux toujours tournés vers le lointain. Yngve et Lukas doivent être blottis l’un contre l’autre comme des jumeaux siamois. Et une brise douce et pure, gonflée de la chaleur de l’été, qui les pousse, porte leur embarcation de plus en plus loin, peut-être jusqu’à l’autre rive où, peut-être, ils descendront pour dîner dans les beaux quartiers. Après quoi ils rentreront, poseront un pied chancelant sur la jetée, bronzés, la peau à vif, gercée par le soleil et le vent, le fond de l’air qui se rafraîchit le soir à cette saison. Où iront-ils ensuite ? Sur la place, peut-être ? Ou chez Yngve et Miller, pour continuer à boire et fumer ? Ils penseront à peine à lui, Wallace le sait, à part Miller. Ils ne feront pas grand cas de son absence, mais il ne peut s’en prendre qu’à lui-même. Il n’avait qu’à dire quelque chose au brunch. Comme il aurait été facile d’être avec eux s’il n’avait pas coupé le lien en annonçant qu’il rentrait chez lui, sachant parfaitement qu’il n’allait pas le faire, qu’il filerait au labo à la minute où il les laisserait, à pied, ne s’arrêtant chez lui que pour prendre son sac.

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

  No more has a sinner (rasha') with a godly man (tsaddiq). (13.17[19]) The righteous man is frequently considered one who fears the Lord. The meaning of the phrase can best be understood by quoting a passage about one who does not fear the Lord: A man who breaks his marriage vows says to himself, 'Who sees me? Darkness surrounds me, and the walls hide me, and no one sees me. Why should I fear? The Most High will not take notice of my sins.' His fear is confined to the eyes of men, and he does not realize that the eyes of the Lord are ten thousand times brighter than the sun; 34 So also Buchler,JQR 13, p. 314. Ben Sirach 345 they look upon all the ways of men, and perceive even the hidden places. (23. 18f.) Just as the attitude of the wicked man is arrogance and the false confidence that he can 'get away with' his sin, the attitude of the righteous is humility and respect for the Lord. Thus the humble of 35. 17 are opposed to the insolent and the wicked of 35.18. It is the attitude of humility which Ben Sirach calls 'fearing the Lord' (2.17: 'those who fear the Lord ... will humble themselves before him'), and this is the precise opposite of the insolent attitude of the wicked man who fears only man but not God (23.18f., quoted immediately above). The righteous man humbly accepts God's discipline and his judgments (18.14), while the wicked think that they are immune. It is evident that Ben Sirach's nomism, which is based on confidence in God's justice and mercy, is not to be equated with works-righteous legalism in the pejorative sense, in which a man arrogantly thinks that his good deeds establish a claim on God. Arrogance is precisely what Ben Sirach excoriates. The righteous man is humble and trusts in God's mercy. The attitude of humility and respect leads to obeying the Lord's command- ments, and 'fearing the Lord' cannot be separated from obeying: 'nothing is better than the fear of the Lord, and nothing sweeter than to heed the commandments of the Lord' (23.27). Similarly, the one who fears the Lord is paralleled with the one who keeps the law in 15.1, while in 10.19 and 19.24 fearing the Lord is the opposite of transgressing his command- ments. In 19.20 the author says that fear of the Lord is wisdom, while in wisdom there is fulfilment of the law. Fear of the Lord, however, is not a negative kind of fear which leads to obedience as the easiest means of avoiding punishment. It can be described in much more positive terms than that: The fear of the Lord is glory and exultation, and gladness and a crown of rejoicing. The fear of the Lord delights the heart, and gives gladness and joy and long life.

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

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO ON BECOMING GREEK O f all the foreign countries that have translated my work, Greece, one of the smallest, looms largest in my psyche. In 1997, Stavros Petsopoulos, the owner of Agra Publications, bought the Greek-language rights to all my books and engaged a married couple, Yannis Zervas and Evangelia Andritsanou, as translators. Thus began a long and meaningful relationship for our family. Yannis is an American-trained psychiatrist and well-known Greek poet, and Evangelia is a clinical psychologist as well as a translator. Though Greece has never played an important role in the field of psychotherapy and has a literate population of roughly 5 million, it immediately became my largest audience per capita in the world, and I am better known as a writer there than anywhere else. I have never understood why. Since our first encounter with Greece, when our baggage got lost and Marilyn and I traveled light for five days as tourists, we have had two extraordinary visits together. The first was preceded by a visit to Turkey. In 1993, I gave a workshop for psychiatrists at the Bakirkoy Hospital in Istanbul and then led a two-day personal growth group of eighteen Turkish psychiatrists and psychologists in Bodrum, an ancient town on the Aegean Sea that is described by Homer as “the land of eternal blue.” That group worked hard for two full days, and I was much impressed by the sophistication and openness of many of its members. After the workshop, one of the psychiatrists, Ayça Cermak, with whom I have stayed in touch to this day, acted as a guide, driving Marilyn and me through parts of western Turkey and then back to Istanbul. There we caught a plane to Athens and boarded a ferry for the island of Lesbos. Marilyn had long been interested in the poet Sappho, who had lived on Lesbos in the seventh century BC surrounded by her female disciples. Just off the ferry, I was delighted to see a small motorcycle rental shop, and off we went to explore Lesbos on an ancient but seemingly cooperative motorcycle. Toward the end of the day, just as the sun vanished into the ocean, the motorcycle took a final gasp and expired outside a deserted village. We had no choice but to spend the night in the ruins of an abandoned guesthouse, where Marilyn got little sleep after spotting a large rodent scuttling through the four-foot-high bathroom. By noon the following day, the motorcycle shop had sent a replacement via a truck, and we continued on our way, passing through welcoming villages, idling in tavernas, chatting with other guests, and watching contented, white-bearded old men drinking retsina and playing backgammon. I had met Yannis in 2002 at an American Psychiatric Association Conference in New Orleans, where I was given the Oskar Pfister Award in Religion and Psychiatry.

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

  This is a comfortable format for me, and the time flowed so quickly that I was startled when the session ended. As the audience stood and applauded, I had the disquieting sense they were saying farewell. Because there are few psychiatrists practicing at my age, I often ask myself: Why are you still seeing patients? It’s not for economic reasons; I have enough money to live comfortably. It’s that I love my work too much to let it go before I have to. I feel privileged at being invited into the intimate lives of so many people, and after so many decades, I think I may be getting good at it. Perhaps, in part, this is a result of getting good at selecting my patients. For the past several years I’ve done time-limited therapy: I tell patients at our first session that I will see them for a maximum of one year. As I approached eighty, I began to wonder how long my mind and memory would remain intact. I didn’t want patients to become overly dependent on a man who might soon be retiring. Moreover, I’ve found that setting a termination date at the outset generally increases the efficiency of treatment and plunges patients more quickly into the work. (Otto Rank, one of Freud’s early disciples, made that same observation over a hundred years ago.) I am careful not to accept a patient if it appears unlikely that we can make considerable progress in a year, and I refer patients who are more severely ill and in need of psychotropic medication to other psychiatrists. (Because I’ve not kept abreast of new research, I stopped prescribing medication several years ago.) Since I have helped so many people deal with aging, I thought I was well prepared for the losses looming ahead, but I find it far more daunting than I had imagined. The aching knees, the loss of balance, the early-morning back stiffness, the fatigue, the fading vision and hearing, the skin blemishes, all these catch my attention but are minor compared to the fading of memory. On a recent Saturday, my wife and I went out for a walk and lunch in San Francisco, and upon returning to our apartment I realized that I had neglected to take my keys with me. We had to wait outside for a couple of hours before the return of a neighbor who had a duplicate set. That evening we attended a play, The Unheard of World , by Fabrice Melquiot, about an imaginative vision of the afterlife. It was produced by my son Ben and staged by FoolsFURY, his dramatic group. Marilyn and I had agreed to discuss the play with the audience after the performance, she from a literary perspective and I from a philosophical and psychiatric one. Although my remarks seemed satisfactory to the audience, I realized, in the middle of my presentation, that I had forgotten an important and interesting point I had wished to discuss.

• From Real Life (2020)

  Wallace s’estime chanceux sur ce point, au moins. Le montant de sa bourse est généreux, deux fois ce que gagnait sa mère comme femme de ménage, et il lui permet de jouir d’une certaine aisance matérielle : il peut payer sa nourriture, son loyer, et d’autres nécessités comme son ordinateur et ses nouvelles lunettes, qui coûtent près de mille dollars. Ce n’est pas une somme énorme. Mais c’est plus qu’il n’a eu de toute sa vie et, mieux encore, c’est régulier. La somme tombe tous les mois, il peut compter dessus. L’eau se met vite à bouillir dans le récipient gris et il la verse sur le chaï qu’il a acheté à l’épicerie hors de prix du centre. L’argent est un sujet permanent, pour eux tous : qui a reçu la plus grosse bourse du département (Miller), quel directeur de recherche s’est vu refuser une subvention (celui de Luka), quel projet est le plus susceptible de trouver des dérivés porteurs dans l’industrie (celui d’Yngve), qui va décrocher le poste à Brandeis (Caroline), qui prendra le poste au MIT (Nora, une doctorante du labo d’Yngve), qui pourrait bien partir à Harvard (le directeur d’étude de Cole), pour Columbia (celui d’Emma), pour UT Southwestern (personne). Ils discutent des vies et des destins des profs comme on pourrait suivre la trajectoire de planètes de second ordre. Les carrières se font en orbite, régulées par des facteurs spécifiques. En général, soit on reste au niveau de son institution de troisième cycle ou de post-doctorat, soit on descend d’une marche. Il est difficile de migrer d’un niveau à l’autre. Une bourse conduit à un bon programme post-doctoral, puis un bon post-doc conduit à de bonnes subventions, de bonnes subventions entraînent des postes d’enseignants dans des institutions dont le prestige est plus ou moins proportionnel à celui de son premier directeur de recherche. En définitive, l’argent fait tout. La bourse de Wallace provient d’un fonds de recherche relativement prestigieux, reconnu sur le plan national. Simone est considérée comme un ponte dans leur domaine. Une progression régulière et positive vers l’avenir s’ouvre à eux. C’est pour cet avenir qu’il a travaillé toute sa vie. Pour l’alignement de ces avantages précis. Mais les conditions , se dit Wallace. Les conditions de toute cette bonne fortune. Leur coût. Le thé est un compromis. Il a envie d’un café, mais ça lui compliquerait la tâche. Quand il a commencé le programme, Wallace tournait à trois triples cappuccinos avant 15 heures rien que pour se tenir éveillé.

• From Another Country (1962)

  Ida grinned. “That’s a very friendly idea.” She was terribly attractive when she grinned. Her face, then, made one think of a mischievous street boy. And at the same time there glowed in her eyes a marvelously feminine mockery. Vivaldo kept watching her, a small smile playing around the corners of his mouth. The snow which had been predicted for the day before Thanksgiving did not begin to fall until late in the evening—slow, halfhearted flakes, spinning and gleaming in the darkness, melting on the ground. All day long a cold sun glared down on Manhattan, giving no heat. Cass woke a little earlier than usual, and fed the children and sent them off to school. Richard ate his breakfast and retired into his study—he was not in a good mood. Cass cleaned the house, thinking of tomorrow’s dinner, and went out in the early afternoon to shop and to walk for a little while alone. She was gone longer than she had intended, for she loved to walk around this city. She was chilled when at last she started home. They lived just below Twenty-third Street, on the West Side, in a neighborhood that had lately acquired many Puerto Ricans. For this reason it was said that the neighborhood was declining; from what previous height it would have been hard to say. It seemed to Cass very much as it always had, run-down, and with a preponderance of very rough-looking people. As for the Puerto Ricans, she rather liked them. They did not impress her as being rough; they seemed, on the contrary, rather too gentle for their brutal environment. She liked the sound of their talk, soft and laughing, or else violently, clearly, brilliantly hostile; she liked the life in their eyes and the way they treated their children, as though all children were naturally the responsibility of all grownups. Even when the adolescents whistled after her, or said lewd things as she passed and laughed among themselves, she did not become resentful or afraid; she did not feel in it the tense New York hostility. They were not cursing something they longed for and feared, they were joking about something they longed for and loved. Now, as she labored up the outside steps of the building, one of the Puerto Rican boys she had seen everywhere in the neighborhood opened the door for her with a small, half-smile. She smiled at him and thanked him as forthrightly as she could, and stepped into the elevator. There was something in Richard’s face as he closed the door behind her, and in the loud silence of the apartment. She looked at him and started to ask about the children—but then she heard them in the living room.

• From Another Country (1962)

  They seemed stunted and misshapen; the only color in their faces suggested too much bad wine and too little sun; even the children seemed to have been hatched in a cellar. It was a town like some towns in the American South, frozen in its history as Lot’s wife was trapped in salt, and doomed, therefore, as its history, that overwhelming, omnipresent gift of God, could not be questioned, to be the property of the gray, unquestioning mediocre. Sometime in the course of the afternoon, though they had only come down from Paris for the day, they decided to spend the night. It was Yves’ suggestion, made when they returned to the cathedral and stood on the steps, looking at the saints and martyrs trapped in stone. Yves had been unusually silent all day. And Eric knew him well enough by now not to push him, not to prod, even not to worry. He knew that Yves’ silences meant that he was fighting some curious war of his own, was coming to some decision of his own; presently, later today, tomorrow, next week, Yves would abruptly retrace, in speech, the steps he was taking in silence now. And, oddly enough, for it seems not to be the way we live now, for Eric, merely hearing Yves’ footfalls at his side, feeling Yves beside him, and watching that changing face, was joy enough—or almost joy enough. They found a hotel which overlooked a stream and took a double room. Their windows overlooked the water; the towers of the cathedral loomed to the right of them, far away. When they took the room, the sun was setting and great streaks of fire and dull gold were splashed across the still, blue sky. There were trees just outside the window, bending into the water; and there were a few tables and chairs, but they were empty; there did not seem to be many people in the hotel. Yves seated himself in the large window and lit a cigarette, looking down at the tables and chairs. Eric stood next to him, his hand on Yves’ shoulder. “Shall we have a drink down there, old buddy?” “My God, no; we shall be eaten up by bugs. Let’s go and find a bistro.” “Okay.” He moved away. Yves stood up. They stared at each other. “I imagine that we must come back early,” Yves said, “there is surely nothing to do in this town.” Then he grinned, mischievously. “Ça va?” “It was your idea to come here,” Eric said. “Yes.” He turned to the window again. “It is peaceful, yes? And we can be gentle with each other, we can have a moment together.” He threw his cigarette out of the window. When he turned to Eric again, his eyes were clouded, and his mouth was very vulnerable. After a moment he said, softly, “Let us go.”

• From Another Country (1962)

  They gathered up the makings, and the beer, and Belle picked up a blanket; and, like children, they tiptoed out of the apartment, up the stairs to the roof. And there they seemed bathed in silence, all alone. Belle spread the blanket, which was not big enough for them all. She and Lorenzo shared it. Vivaldo took another large drag and squatted on the edge of the roof, his arms hugging his knees. “Don’t do that, man,” Lorenzo whispered, “you’re too near the edge, I can’t bear to watch it.” Vivaldo smiled and moved back, stretching out on his belly beside them. “I’m sorry. I’m like that, too. I can hang over the edge myself, but I can’t watch anybody else do it.” Belle grabbed his hand. He looked up at her pale, thin face, framed by the black hair. She smiled, and she was prettier than she had seemed in the bar. “I like you,” she said. “You’re a real groovy cat. Lorenzo always said you were, but I never believed him.” Her accent, too, was more noticeable now; she sounded like the simplest and most innocent of country girls—if country girls were innocent, and he supposed, at some point in their lives, they had to be. “Why, thank you,” he said. Lorenzo, palely caught in the lights of heaven and earth, grinned over at him. Vivaldo pulled his hand from Belle’s hand and reached over and struck Lorenzo lightly on the cheek. “I like you, too, both of you.” “How you feeling, dad?” It was Harold, who seemed to be quite far away. “I feel wonderful.” And he did, in a strange, untrustworthy way. He was terribly aware of his body, the length of his limbs, and the soft wind ruffling his hair, and of Lorenzo and Belle, poised like two cherubim together, and of Harold, the prince of darkness, industrious, indefatigable keeper of the weed. Harold was sitting in the shadow of the chimney, rolling another stick. Vivaldo laughed. “Baby, you really love your work.” “I just love to see people happy,” said Harold, and suddenly grinned; he, too, seemed very different from what he had been in the bar, younger and softer; and somewhere beneath it all, much sadder, so that Vivaldo regretted all his harsh, sardonic judgments. What happened to people? why did they suffer so hideously? And at the same time he knew that he and Harold could never be friends and that none of them, really, would ever get any closer to each other than they were right now. Harold lit his stick and passed it to Vivaldo. “Go, baby,” he said—very tenderly, watching Vivaldo with a smile.

• From Henry Miller on Writing (1964)

  I find that there is plenty of room in the world for everybody—great interspatial depths, great ego universes, great islands of repair, for whoever attains to individuality. On the surface, where the historical battles rage, where everything is interpreted in terms of money and power, there may be crowding, but life only begins when one drops below the surface, when one gives up the struggle, sinks and disappears from sight. Now I can as easily not write as write: there is no longer any compulsion, no longer any therapeutic aspect to it. Whatever I do is done out of sheer joy: I drop my fruits like a ripe tree. What the general reader or the critic makes of it is not my concern. I am not establishing values: I defecate and nourish. There is nothing more to it. This condition of sublime indifference is a logical development of the egocentric life. I lived out the social problem by dying: the real problem is not one of getting on with one’s neighbor or of contributing to the development of one’s country, but of discovering one’s destiny, of making a life in accord with the deep-centered rhythm of the cosmos. To be able to use the word cosmos boldly, to use the word soul, to deal in things “spiritual”—and to shun definitions, alibis, proofs, duties. Paradise is everywhere and every road, if one continues along it far enough, leads to it. One can only go forward by going backward and then sideways and then up and then down. There is no progress: there is perpetual movement, displacement, which is circular, spiral, endless. Every man has his own destiny: the only imperative is to follow it, to accept it, no matter where it lead him. I haven’t the slightest idea what my future books will be like, even the one immediately to follow. My charts and plans are the slenderest sort of guides: I scrap them at will, I invent, distort, deform, lie, inflate, exaggerate, confound and confuse as the mood seizes me. I obey only my own instincts and intuitions. I know nothing in advance. Often I put down things which I do not understand myself, secure in the knowledge that later they will become clear and meaningful to me. I have faith in the man who is writing, who is myself, the writer. I do not believe in words, no matter if strung together by the most skillful man: I believe in language, which is something beyond words, something which words give only an inadequate illusion of. Words do not exist separately, except in the minds of scholars, etymologists, philologists, etc. Words divorced from language are dead things, and yield no secrets. A man is revealed in his style, the language which he has created for himself.

• From Henry Miller on Writing (1964)

  If I am wrong today I am right tomorrow. Writing is not a game played according to rules. Writing is a compulsive, and delectable thing. Writing is its own reward. The men of 2500 A.D. will enjoy reading this little passage, I am sure . For, don’t forget it, there will be Fraenkels and Millers then as now, and there will be the same debate, the same problems, only different. I know when I am giving the man of the future pleasure; I share the pleasure with him in advance. You don’t settle anything; I don’t settle anything. Everything remains unsettled forever, depend on it. But when we say something by which they recognize us that brings pleasure. I tell you, I feel very close to the man of the future. It doesn’t matter to me whether the West declines to the point of death and extinction or not. In the same West there will be men who understand what I am saying and who approve, no matter what the fashion may be, no matter who the emperor may be. I pity the emperor as I pity the slave under him. I know they will both enjoy my work, regardless of their circumstance or position in life. I wonder do you ever feel that way about the future? And then there is another little thing I want to touch on before closing this letter. About growing soft, as you put it. Right you are, my lad. I am growing soft as a jellyfish and with a will. I dote on it. Poke a stick into me and see what happens. Roll me over and step on me a bit. You see, I am not very much bruised. Maybe a tentacle or two lopped off—but tomorrow I will grow others. I am turning into water, did you know it? I am volatilizing. At 98½ I turn into steam and vapor. I reintegrate when it rains. Did you notice yesterday, when it was so cold, that I became completely frozen? Today I’m thawed out again. Fluid. So it goes. The other night, passing Ecole Militaire, I noticed the café where I thought out the first Hamlet letter. I sat down with Fred and Edgar and we talked about “evil.” Very fitting, I thought. Edgar did most of the talking. He’s keen now about the elimination of evil. When he had his say I thought to myself, fine! I’ll retain a little evil just the same. In fact, I’ll swap evil for good, if you like. Evil! What’s evil to me? What’s good? I see one plasm, protozooic or divine, whichever you choose. Give it all the names you like, that doesn’t deceive me. What it is I have it, and I don’t give a fuck by what name you call it . Nature is with me, and God too, and so are all my brothers in the flesh, though they don’t all know it yet.

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

  I think I’ve only resorted to planting a pink slip of paper in Greg’s car twice in all the years since he did this. Just knowing how Greg wants to meet my emotional needs keeps my love tank full, whether he’s been speaking my love language or not. And I’ve learned that if I want to express my love for him, I just do his laundry or weed the flower bed instead of driving to the Hallmark store. As we learn to speak each other’s love language, our love tanks are filled and we protect our marriage relationships from outside physical or emotional temptations. When either or both partners fail to recognize and meet the needs of their mate, these temptations can become overwhelming. I frequently hear women say (and have said it myself ), “I’m so tempted because he doesn’t meet my emotional needs!” But before you take aim at your husband for not meeting your emotional needs, look into your own emotional mirror and answer these questions: • Do you know exactly what your emotional needs are yourself? (Many women don’t; they just know they aren’t fulfilled.) Do you know your own love language? (If not, I highly recommend that you read The Five Love Languages.) • Have you lovingly and respectfully explained exactly what these needs are and how your husband can fill your love tank? • Have you inspired him to try to understand your needs for emotional intimacy, or is this something you’ve attempted to require of him? • How consistent have you been in meeting his physical needs (not just on special occasions, but according to his needs cycle)? Have you served his needs wholeheartedly and with a positive attitude? Sheila shares this via e-mail to encourage women to recognize their unique role as their husband’s sole source of pleasure: If I don’t cook for my husband, he can go to McDonald’s. If I don’t clean, he can hire a housekeeper. But if I don’t respond to him physically, where can he go? Likewise, if my husband doesn’t meet my emotional needs, I certainly can’t go to another man. I am not supposed to be filled up with another man’s compliments and attention. If we truly follow God’s principles, die to ourselves, and serve each other, marriage could be a beautiful blessing! While Sheila’s word of wisdom is a valuable one, let me interject a disclaimer. I realize that some women have tried everything, including catering to their husband’s physical needs, in an effort to wake him up emotionally. If this is you, and the above questions have only frustrated you rather than inspired you to try a new approach, then perhaps you both need to look into an emotional mirror with the help of a Christian counselor. If so, I encourage you to pursue healing as a couple.

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

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE MOMMA AND THE MEANING OF LIFE E very year at departmental graduation, the psychiatry residents put on a skit lampooning some aspect of their Stanford experience. One year I was the target, and the resident lampooning me always appeared caressing a stack of books with “Yalom” on the spine. But I took no offense: instead, I found myself rather pleased at the sight of all those books I had written. At that time I was working on a publisher-generated book, The Yalom Reader , beautifully edited by my son Ben, that contains excerpts from my prior work and new essays. After finishing the final essay, I had a powerful, unforgettable dream about my mother that I described in the title story of my next book, Momma and the Meaning of Life . Dusk. Perhaps I am dying. Sinister shapes surround my bed: cardiac monitors, oxygen canisters, dripping intravenous bottles, coils of plastic tubing—the entrails of death. Closing my lids, I glide into darkness. But then, springing from my bed, I dart out of the hospital room smack into the bright, sunlit Glen Echo Amusement Park where, in decades past, I spent many summer Sundays. I hear carousel music. I breathe in the moist, caramelized fragrance of sticky popcorn and apples. And I walk straight ahead—not hesitating at the Polar Bear Frozen Custard stand or the double-dip roller coaster or the Ferris wheel—to take my place in the ticket line for the House of Horrors. My fare paid, I wait as the next cart swivels around the corner and clanks to a halt in front of me. After stepping in and pulling down the guardrail to lock myself snugly into place, I take one last look about me—and there, in the midst of a small group of onlookers, I see her. I wave with both arms and call, loud enough for everyone to hear, “Momma! Momma!” Just then the cart lurches forward and strikes the double doors, which swing open to reveal a black gaping maw. I lean back as far as I can and, before being swallowed by the darkness, call again, “Momma! How’d I do, Momma? How’d I do? ” Could the dream’s message be—and this possibility staggers me—that I have been conducting my entire life with this lamentable woman as my primary audience? All my life I have sought to escape, to climb away from my past—the ghetto, the grocery store—yet can it be that I have escaped neither my past nor my mother? My mother had a conflictual relationship with her mother, who spent the last years of her life in a New York nursing home. In addition to cleaning and cooking and working in the store, my mother regularly took a four-hour train ride to bring home-baked pastries to her mother, who instead of thanking her, raved about Simon, my mother’s brother. He never brought her anything but a bottle of 7-Up.

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

  Whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things. (Philippians 4:8) To show you how this works, I’ll tell you about a typical day in my life when I’m able to keep my focus on godly things. I usually wake up with a worship song rolling around in my head, and I’ll more than likely hum a few bars or even bellow it out in the shower. As I prepare for the day, I try to look my best to give a positive impression to the people I will encounter. As I make breakfast, get the kids ready for school, make a grocery list, fill the car up with gas, and drop bills by the post office, I am serving my family. As I go about my work responsibilities, I do it for the sake of advancing God’s kingdom. As I send a note to a hurting coworker, forward a funny e-mail to my friend, call to check on my neighbor, I do it to build and maintain healthy and positive relationships. All of these thoughts and actions are acts of responsible stewardship. I do them out of appreciation for the family and friends that God has given me. Is God my one and only constant thought throughout the day? No. But even as I think on the various other things that demand my attention, am I loving God with all my heart, soul, and mind? Absolutely. When we demonstrate responsible stewardship of the life He has given us, our lives offer proof of our love. BACK TO THE BIBLE The only reliable standard we can use to measure our thoughts to determine if they are appropriate or inappropriate is God’s Word. Hebrews 4:12-13 says: For the word of God is living and active. Sharper than any double-edged sword, it penetrates even to dividing soul and spirit, joints and marrow; it judges the thoughts and attitudes of the heart. Nothing in all creation is hidden from God’s sight. Everything is uncovered and laid bare before the eyes of him to whom we must give account. (emphasis added) Before we can determine what sexual or romantic thoughts are unacceptable in God’s eyes, however, it would be beneficial to know what sexual acts are forbidden in Scripture. In the process of writing their book Intimate Issues, Linda Dillow and Lorraine Pintus searched from Genesis to Revelation to discover everything that God has to say about sexual behaviors. According to their study, Scripture prohibits the following sexual acts: 1. Fornication—immoral sex, including intercourse outside of marriage 2. Adultery—sex with someone who is not your spouse (Jesus expanded this definition in Matthew 5:28 to include not just physical acts, but emotional and mental acts as well.) 3. Homosexuality—to engage in sexual practices with someone of the same sex 4. Impurity—to become defiled due to living out a secular or pagan lifestyle

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

  It is generally agreed that the Shammaites and those influenced by them preferred 'doing' to 'studying'. Thus Aboth 1.15 and 1.17: Shammai said: Make thy [study of the] Law a fixed habit; say little and do much, and receive all men with cheerful countenance. Simeon [b. Gamaliel] said: All my days have I grown up among the Sages and I have found naught better for a man than silence; and not the expounding [of the Law] is the chief thing but the doing [of it]; and he that multiplies words occasions sm. Shammai's encouragement to 'say little and do much' is taken to exalt 'doing' over 'studying'. 33 On the other hand, Hillelites emphasized study over 31 Confidence in God is not the same as self-righteous confidence in oneself, which Bousset is willing enough to see. The difference is put precisely by Mach, Der Zaddik, p. 40: 'Das Gottesvertrauen ist es, nicht <las Bewusstsein der eigenen Gerechtigkeit, worauf die Heilsgewissheit de< Frommen fusst.' 32 A baraita in Berakoth 8a, ET, p. 39. R. Nathan was a contemporary of R. Meir. There are many similar sayings. See e.g. the baraita in Berakoth 5a-b on 'labouring at the Torah and gemilut ~asadim'. 33 So Finkelstein, Akiba, p. 49. Shammai's saying was later taken to mean 'promise little and do much', as is clear in ARN 13. One should be modest in promising hospitality and the like, but generous in providing it. See further Nedarim 21b and Baba Mctzia 87a for the same meaning. Mach (Der Zaddik, p. 86 n. 5) understands Shammai's saying to mean what the later Rabbis take it to mean 218 Tannaitic Literature [I deed. 34 Thus Hillel said, 'the more study of the Law the more life'. 35 There is no corresponding saying in favour of 'doing', although the phrase 'the more righteousness the more peace' 36 may refer to deeds ofloving-kindness. A both is dominated by sayings elevating the study of the Torah; being a 'Sage' is the ideal life in the view of many of the Rabbis: 37 Jose b. Joezer of Zeredah (A both 1.4): 'Let thy house be a meeting-house for the sages and sit amid the dust of their feet and drink in their words with thirst.' R. Johanan b. Zakkai (Aboth 2.8): 'If thou hast wrought much in the Law claim not merit for thyself, for to this end wast thou created.' R. Jose (b. Halafta) (Aboth 2.12); 'Let the property of thy fellow be dear to thee as thine own; and fit thyself for the study of the Law, for [the knowledge of] it is not thine by inheritance; and let all thy deeds be done for the sake of Heaven.' R. Tarfon (Aboth 2.16): 'If thou hast studied much in the Law much reward will be given thee.' R.

• From Henry Miller on Writing (1964)

  I don’t care what happened subsequently. I care about that moment which was true and inspiring. I saw it only a few seconds, but it will remain with me, imperishable. And so I know that certain things which I have painted in words are true and imperishable, and what happened to me the man or to her the woman in actuality, is of little importance. Something felt, something stated—something recorded in truth for eternity, that is what matters. Sometimes in the recording of a bald sexual incident great significance adheres. Sometimes the sexual becomes a writhing, pulsating façade such as we see on Indian temples. Sometimes it is a fresco hidden in a sacred cave where one may sit and contemplate on things of the spirit. There is nothing I can possibly prohibit myself from doing in this realm of sex. It is a world unto itself and a morsel of it may be just as destructive or beneficent as a ton of it. It is a cold fire which burns in us like a sun. It is never dead, even though the sun may become a moon. There are no dead things in the universe—it is only our way of thinking which makes death. When we look to find life we discover it in even the most inanimate object. Even the mineral is now said to possess sensitivity. As for the corpse, does it not distribute itself among the greedy elements of the earth from which it sprang? The sexual life of the corpse—there would be a theme! How the corpse gives itself to nourish and propagate. If men would stop to think about this great activity which animates the earth and all the heavens, would they give themselves to thoughts of death? Would a man withhold himself in any way if he realized that alive or dead this frenzied activity goes on ceaselessly and remorselessly? If death is nothing, what fear then should we have of sex? The gods came down from above to fornicate with human kind and with animals and trees, with the earth itself. Why are we so particular? Why can we not love—and do all the other things which give us pleasure too? Why can we not give ourselves in all directions at once? What is it we fear? We fear to lose ourselves. And yet, until we lose ourselves there can be no hope of finding ourselves.

• From Another Country (1962)

  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. I’ll only be a minute.” He jumped out of bed and entered the bathroom. She listened to the water splashing and flushing and looked around his apartment, which already seemed terribly familiar. She would try to get down and clean it up sometime in the next few days. It would be difficult to get away in the daytime, except, perhaps, on Saturdays. Then it occurred to her that she needed a smoke screen for this affair and that she would have to use Vivaldo and Ida. Eric came out of the bathroom and pulled on his shorts and his trousers and his T-shirt. He stuck his feet into his sandals. He looked scrubbed and sleepy and pale. His lips were swollen and very red, like those of heroes and gods of antiquity. “All ready?” he asked.

• From Another Country (1962)

  They did not impress her as being rough; they seemed, on the contrary, rather too gentle for their brutal environment. She liked the sound of their talk, soft and laughing, or else violently, clearly, brilliantly hostile; she liked the life in their eyes and the way they treated their children, as though all children were naturally the responsibility of all grownups. Even when the adolescents whistled after her, or said lewd things as she passed and laughed among themselves, she did not become resentful or afraid; she did not feel in it the tense New York hostility. They were not cursing something they longed for and feared, they were joking about something they longed for and loved. Now, as she labored up the outside steps of the building, one of the Puerto Rican boys she had seen everywhere in the neighborhood opened the door for her with a small, half-smile. She smiled at him and thanked him as forthrightly as she could, and stepped into the elevator. There was something in Richard’s face as he closed the door behind her, and in the loud silence of the apartment. She looked at him and started to ask about the children—but then she heard them in the living room. Richard followed her into the kitchen and she put down her packages. She looked into his face. “What is it?” she asked. Then, after the instant in which she checked off all the things it wasn’t, “Rufus,” she said, suddenly, “you’ve got news about Rufus.” “Yes.” She watched the way a small vein in his forehead fluttered. “He’s dead, Cass. They found his body floating in the river.” She sat down at the kitchen table. “When?” “Sometime this morning.” “How long—how long ago—?” “A few days. They figured he must have jumped off the George Washington Bridge.” “My God,” she said. Then: “Who—?” “Vivaldo. He called. Just after you went out. Ida had called him.” “My God,” she said, again, “it’s going to kill that poor girl.” He paused. “Vivaldo sounded as though he’d just been kicked in the belly by a horse.” “Where is he?” “I tried to make him come here. But he was going uptown to the girl—Ida—I don’t know what good he can do.” “Well. He was much closer to Rufus than we were.” “Would you like a drink?” “Yes,” she said, “I think I’d like a drink.” She sat staring at the table. “I wonder if there was anything—we—anyone—could have done.” “No,” he said, pouring a little whiskey in a glass and setting it before her, “there was nothing anyone could have done. It was too late. He wanted to die.” She was silent, sipping the whiskey. She watched the way the sunlight fell on the table. Richard put his hand on her shoulder. “Don’t take it too hard, Cass.