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.

Page 144 of 189 · 20 per page

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

  United States; the fourth, of the Presbyterian churches in Scotland, England, and America. They follow these various churches to all their missionary fields in heathen lands, and have been translated into many languages. They are essentially agreed in the fundamental doctrines of catholic and evangelical religion. They teach the articles of the Apostles’ Creed, the Ten Commandments, and the Lord’s Prayer; that is, all that is necessary for a man to believe and to do in order to be saved. They thus exhibit the harmony of the chief branches of orthodox Protestant Christendom. But they also differ, and reflect the peculiar genius and charisma of these churches. The Lutheran Catechism is the simplest, the most genial and childlike; the Heidelberg Catechism, the fullest and the richest for a more mature age; the Anglican Catechism, the shortest and most churchly, though rather meagre; the Westminster Catechism, the clearest, precisest, and most logical. The first three are addressed to the learner as a church-member, who answers the questions from his present or prospective experience. The Westminster Catechism is impersonal, and gives the answers in the form of a theological definition embodying the question. The first two breathe the affectionate heartiness and inwardness which are characteristic of German piety; the other two reflect the sober and practical type of English and Scotch piety. The Lutheran and Anglican Catechisms begin with the Ten Commandments, and regard the law in its preparatory mission as a schoolmaster leading to Christ. The other catechisms begin with an exposition of the articles of faith, and proceed from faith to the law as a rule of Christian life, which the Heidelberg Catechism represents as an act of gratitude for the salvation obtained (following in its order the Epistle to the Romans, from sin to redemption, and from redemption to a holy life of gratitude). Luther adheres to the Roman division of the Decalogue, and abridges it; the others give the better division of the Jews and the Greek Church, with the full text. The Lutheran and Anglican Catechisms assign to the sacraments an independent place alongside of the Commandments, the Creed, and the Lord’s Prayer; while the Heidelberg and Westminster Catechisms incoporate them in the exposition of the articles of faith. The former teach baptismal regeneration, and Luther also the corporeal real presence, and private confession and absolution; the latter teach the Calvinistic theory of the sacraments, and ignore private confession and absolution. The Anglican Thirty-nine Articles, however, likewise teach the Reformed view of the Lord’s Supper. The Westminster Catechism departs from the catholic tradition by throwing the Apostles’ Creed into an appendix, and substituting for the historical order of revelation a new logical scheme; While all the other catechisms make the Creed the basis of their, doctrinal expositions.742 The difference is manifest in the opening questions and answers, which we give here in parallel columns: — luther’s catechism The First Commandment. Thou shalt have no other gods. What does this mean?

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

  But they were never intended for publication; and making due allowance for human weakness, the rudeness of the age, and his own rugged nature, we may agree with the judgment of one of his most accurate biographers, that "in all his words and deeds Luther was guided constantly by the loftiest principles, by the highest considerations of morality and religious truth, and that in the simple and straightforward manner which was his nature, utterly free from affectation or artificial effort."605 After dinner he indulged with his friends and children in music, sacred and secular songs, German and Latin hymns. He loved poetry, music, painting, and all the fine arts. In this respect he was ahead of those puritanical Reformers who had no taste for the beautiful, and banished art from the church. He placed music next to theology. He valued it as a most effectual weapon against melancholy and the temptations of the Devil. "The heart," he said, "is satisfied, refreshed, and strengthened by music." He played the lute, sang melodiously, and composed tunes to his hymns, especially the immortal, Ein feste Burg," which gives classic expression to his heroic faith in God and the triumph of the gospel. He never lost his love for Virgil and Cicero, which he acquired as a student at Erfurt. He was fond of legends, fables, and proverbs. He would have delighted in the stories of old "Mother Goose," and in Grimm’s "Hausmährchen." He translated some of Esop’s Fables, and wrote a preface to an edition which was published after his death. He enjoyed the beauties of nature, loved trees and flowers, was fond of gardening, watched with wonder the household of the bees, listened with delight to the singing birds, renewed his youth with the return of spring, and adored everywhere the wisdom and goodness of nature’s God. Looking at a rose, he said, "Could a man make a single rose, we should give him an empire; but these beautiful gifts of God come freely to us, and we think nothing of them. We admire what is worthless, if it be only rare. The most precious of things is nothing if it be common." "The smallest flowers show God’s wisdom and might. Painters cannot rival their color, nor perfumers their sweetness; green and yellow, crimson, blue, and purple, all growing out of the earth. And yet we trample on lilies as if we were so many cows." He delighted in a refreshing rain. "God rains," he said, "many hundred thousand guilders, wheat, rye, barley, oats, wine, cabbage, grass, milk." Talking of children, he said, "They speak and act from the heart. They believe in God without disputing, and in another life beyond the present. They have small intellect, but they have faith, and are wiser than old fools like us. Abraham must have had a hard time when he was told to kill Isaac. No doubt he kept it from Sarah.

• From The Pisces (2018)

  “I am?” I asked. I nibbled his finger a little. “You are,” he said. “But it’s not safe here like this.” “What should we do? Do you want to go back in the ocean?” “Not particularly.” “So then let’s try again.” I rolled over, out from under the blanket, and stood up. Then I brought the wagon over to him. “Okay, hold it very still,” he said, and hoisted himself on backward. I covered him up in the blanket. This time he stayed on. As I pulled him across the beach, there were just a few stray joggers and assorted weirdos nearby. His blanketed tail jutted off the wagon, but it wasn’t the strangest thing to happen in Venice. No one seemed to notice or care. It wasn’t like I was smuggling a dead body. 36.I wheeled him up to the side gate of Annika’s house. “Wow,” he said, gaping up at the glass structure. “The other place I was in was just a wooden shack.” “Yeah,” I said. “My sister’s place is really nice.” I could hear Dominic barking from inside. I had never heard him sound so loud and unhinged. “Oh God,” he said. “I forgot you had a dog. I’m very frightened of them.” “Dominic is really sweet,” I said. “But I can put him in another room if you want.” “Please,” he said. I went inside. Dominic was baring his fangs. “Okay, chill,” I told him. But he growled and showed his gums to me. I also saw that his penis was out, the red lipstick of it extended from its sheath. I knew this happened to dogs when they were angry or excited. Why was he so agitated? “Come here,” I said, and he began to whimper. “You’re going to go in this room.” I opened the door to my sister’s pantry and put in his food dish and water. Then I dragged him in there by the collar. He put his head on his paws and his tail between his legs, but when I went back outside he began barking maniacally again. I didn’t know what to do. This was not the glowing bubble I had envisioned. “How scared are you?” I asked Theo. “Maybe if he just comes out and meets you.” “The problem is that if he attacks I can’t get away.” “He won’t attack,” I said. But I had never seen Dominic this irate and I wasn’t sure. When we imagine a situation—when our hearts decide this must happen—we will go to any lengths to make the fantasy happen. In my fantasy there was no barking. There was only me and Theo on the soft sheets and a universe of silence. “Wait one second,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  A crystal clear morning, like a draught of spring water, and such mornings are good when one is young. The pony tugged hard and fought at his bridle; he was trembling with pleasure for he was no novice; he knew all about signs and wonders in stables, such as large feeds of corn administered early, and extra long groomings, and pink coats with brass buttons, like the hunt coat Sir Philip was wearing. He frisked down the road, a mass of affectation, demanding some skill on the part of his rider; but the child’s hands were strong yet exceedingly gentle—she possessed that rare gift, perfect hands on a horse. ‘This is better than being young Nelson,’ thought Stephen, ‘ ’cause this way I’m happy just being myself.’ Sir Philip looked down at his daughter with contentment; she was good to look upon, he decided. And yet his contentment was not quite complete, so that he looked away again quickly, sighing a little, because, somehow these days, he had taken to sighing over Stephen. The meet was a large one. People noticed the child; Colonel Antrim, the Master, rode up and spoke kindly: ‘You’ve a fine pony there, but he’ll need a bit of holding!’ And then to her father: ‘Is she safe astride, Philip? Violet’s learning to ride, but side-saddle, I prefer it—I never think girl children get the grip astride; they aren’t built for it, haven’t the necessary muscle; still, no doubt she’ll stick on by balance.’ Stephen flushed: ‘No doubt she’ll stick on by balance!’ The words rankled, oh, very deeply they rankled. Violet was learning to ride side-saddle, that small, flabby lump who squealed if you pinched her; that terrified creature of muslins and ribbons and hair that curled over the nurse’s finger! Why, Violet could never come to tea without crying, could never play a game without getting herself hurt! She had fat, wobbly legs too, just like a rag doll—and you, Stephen, had been compared to Violet! Ridiculous of course, and yet all of a sudden you felt less impressive in your fine riding breeches. You felt—well, not foolish exactly, but self-conscious—not quite at your ease, a little bit wrong. It was almost as though you were playing at young Nelson again, were only pretending. But you said: ‘I’ve got muscles, haven’t I, Father? Williams says I’ve got riding muscles already!’ Then you dug your heels sharply into the pony, so that he whisked round, bucking and rearing. As for you, you stuck to his back like a limpet. Wasn’t that enough to convince them? ‘Steady on, Stephen!’ came Sir Philip’s voice, warning. Then the Master’s: ‘She’s got a fine seat. I’ll admit it—Violet’s a little bit scared on a horse, but I think she’ll get confidence later; I hope so.’

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  He said: “She’s so pure that only the purest stones are fit to touch her finger.” You see, he’d known me ever since he was at Eton, that’s why he spoke of your mother to me—I felt deeply honoured. Ah, yes—dear, dear—your father was young then and very much in love. . . .’ She said suddenly: ‘Is this pearl as pure as those diamonds?’ And he answered: ‘It’s without a blemish.’ Then she found her cheque book and he gave her his pen with which to write out the very large cheque. ‘Wouldn’t you like some reference?’ she inquired, as she glanced at the sum for which he must trust her. But at this he laughed: ‘Your face is your reference, if I may be allowed to say so, Miss Gordon.’ They shook hands because he had known her father, and she left the shop with the ring in her pocket. As she walked down the street she was lost in thought, so that if people stared she no longer noticed. In her ears kept sounding those words from the past, those words of her father’s when long, long ago he too had been a young lover: ‘She’s so pure that only the purest stones are fit to touch her finger.’ CHAPTER 22 1 W hen they got back to Morton there was Puddle in the hall, with that warm smile of hers, always just a little mocking yet pitiful too, that queer composite smile that made her face so arresting. And the sight of this faithful little grey woman brought home to Stephen the fact that she had missed her. She had missed her, she found, out of all proportion to the size of the creature, which seemed to have diminished. Coming back to it after those weeks of absence, Puddle’s smallness seemed to be even smaller, and Stephen could not help laughing as she hugged her. Then she suddenly lifted her right off her feet with as much ease as though she had been a baby. Morton smelt good with its log fires burning, and Morton looked good with the goodness of home. Stephen sighed with something very like contentment: ‘Lord! I’m so glad to be back again, Puddle. I must have been a cat in my last incarnation; I hate strange places—especially Cornwall.’ Puddle smiled grimly. She thought that she knew why Stephen had hated Cornwall. After tea Stephen wandered about the house, touching first this, then that, with affectionate fingers. But presently she went off to the stables with sugar for Collins and carrots for Raftery; and there in his spacious, hay-scented loose box, Raftery was waiting for Stephen. He made a queer little sound in his throat, and his soft Irish eyes said: ‘You’re home, home, home.

• From In Search of Paul: How Jesus's Apostle Opposed Rome's Empire with God's Kingdom (2005)

  The city of Aphrodisias, left free and independent by Rome, was not coerced into setting up that magnificent building. But since the relationship between Rome and Aphrodisias was mutually beneficial, it is no surprise that the civic council endorsed the Sebasteion’s construction and that it was financed by two wealthy Aphrodisian families. Two brothers, Menander and Eusebes, paid for the monumental gate and northern gallery, which were restored by Eusebes’s wife, Apphias, and her daughter Tata after an earthquake. The temple and southern gallery were built by two other brothers, Diogenes and Attalus, but since Diogenes died in the planning stages, it was completed by his wife, Attalis Apphion, and then restored after the earthquake by his son Tiberius Claudius Diogenes, who had a Roman name and presumably Roman citizenship. Those citizens were certainly attracted to the imperial favors that inevitably followed imperial honors, including of course Roman citizenship, and they understood the material blessings that accompanied Augustan and Julio-Claudian rule for those who positioned themselves appropriately. Those blessings extended beyond the elites, as the vast figural program on the Sebasteion makes clear. The number of masons, craftsmen, and sculptors necessary for this enormous enterprise was substantial, and most workshops in the city received commissions. The sudden demand for skilled labor led to the hasty promotion of marble cutters to figural sculptors. Many a new apprentice took up mallet and chisel for on-the-job training, as is apparent from the uneven quality of carving. Designers and foremen disguised that fact from viewers by having novices cut the panel’s lower portions, which were less visible from the plaza, and having experts work the upper and more visible portions, especially the imperial portraits. Roman imperial rule energized Aphrodisias’s sculptural workshops and was a boon to the local economy. Any potential criticism of the elite’s attraction to the Roman imperial family would certainly be muted by those many prospering shops and increased incomes. The construction of a Sebasteion with a temple for the Roman imperial cult was a seductive proposition for any city, and its attraction is easily explained. “Victory and conquest were felt to be an important justification of imperial rule,” as R. R. R. Smith, the city’s current excavator, notes in his article “The Imperial Reliefs from the Sebasteion at Aphrodisias,” but “it is always victory over barbarians of various kinds: Britons, Armenians, and the like. The conquest of the Greeks is long forgotten. That was before the emperors. The Greeks were now partners, not subjugated recalcitrants” (98). He concludes,

• From Whipping Girl: A Transsexual Woman on Sexism and the Scapegoating of Femininity (2007)

  It became more and more difficult for me to see the point in identifying outside of the male/female binary when I was so regularly being targeted for discrimination and harassment because I was a woman, when I so frequently had to stand up for myself as a woman in order to make sure that other people did not get away with it. After a couple of years living in the world as female, I eventually came to embrace the identity of “woman.” Thinking of myself as a woman simply began to make sense; it resonated with my lived experiences. Before my transition, I was hesitant about calling myself a woman, mostly because I had no desire to live up to the societal expectations and ideals that others often project onto that identity. I used to fear that embracing that identity would be tantamount to cramming myself into some predetermined box, restricting my possibilities and potential. But I now realize that no matter how I act or what I do or say, I remain a woman—both in the eyes of the world and, more importantly, in the way that I experience myself. While I used to view the word “woman” as limiting, I now find it both empowering and limitless. Together, all of the changes I’ve experienced since my transition—in my body feelings, in my interactions with other people, and in my growing life history as a woman—have led to me becoming a somewhat different person than I was before. Granted, my personality, habits, opinions, sense of humor, etc., are mostly still the same, but my life itself has taken on a different shape. While I can think back to before my transition and imagine how I looked and acted, I find that my memories of how it felt to be in my body—to be physically male—are becoming increasingly vague with time. It’s not dissimilar to how I feel when I think back to high school—recalling all of the things that I thought, said, and did, yet feeling almost as if I were reminiscing about another person. I now look back on my years as an adult male, remembering how I acted and interacted with others, but having some difficulty relating to the person I was back then. My life has very much been reshaped by the experiences of being and feeling physically female and having other people react to me as such. People often squabble over what defines a person as a woman or a man—whether it should be based on their chromosomes, assigned sex, genitals, or other factors—but such reductionist views deny our indisputably holistic gendered realities. For all of us, gender is first and foremost an individual experience, an amalgamation of our own unique combinations of gender inclinations, social interactions, body feelings, and lived experiences. While our experiential gender is often shaped or influenced by our perceived gender (the gender others assume us to be), one does not necessarily follow from the other.

• From Whipping Girl: A Transsexual Woman on Sexism and the Scapegoating of Femininity (2007)

  And while I have lost the significant benefits of male and heterosexual privilege, I still consider my transition to be well worth it. Because for the first time in my life, I now regularly experience what I consider to be the most important gender privilege of all: feeling at home in my own sexed body. Rather than living with gender dissonance, I now experience gender concordance. Many cissexual people seem to have a hard time accepting the idea that they too have a subconscious sex—a deep-rooted understanding of what sex their bodies should be. I suppose that when a person feels right in the sex they were born into, they are never forced to locate or question their subconscious sex, to differentiate it from their physical sex. In other words, their subconscious sex exists, but it is hidden from their view. They have a blind spot. I do believe that it is possible for cissexuals to catch a glimpse of their subconscious sex. When I do presentations on trans issues, I try to accomplish this by asking the audience a question: “If I offered you ten million dollars under the condition that you live as the other sex for the rest of your life, would you take me up on the offer?” While there is often some wiseass in the audience who will say “Yes,” the vast majority of people shake their heads to indicate “No.” Their responses clearly have nothing to do with gender privileges, because both women and men, queers and straights insist that they wouldn’t be willing to make that change. When I ask individuals why they answered no, they usually get a bit flustered at first, as if they are at a loss for words. Eventually, they end up saying something like, “Because I just am a woman (or man),” or, “It just wouldn’t be right. ” Let’s face it: If cissexuals didn’t have a subconscious sex, then sex reassignment would be far more common than it is. Women who wanted to succeed in the male-dominated business world would simply transition to male. Lesbians and gay men who were ashamed of their queerness would simply transition to the other sex. Gender studies grad students would transition for a few years to gather data for their theses. Actors playing transsexuals would go on hormones for a few months in order to make their portrayals more authentic. Criminals and spies would physically transition as a way of going undercover. And contestants on reality shows would be willing to change their sex in the hope of achieving fifteen minutes of fame. Of course, such scenarios seem absolutely ridiculous to us.

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

  If all else fails at least we can spend some time going down memory lane together. When I pull up to his house half an hour later, I feel like I’ve just entered Dr. Dolittle’s yard. Ducks are waddling down the driveway, cats are purring on the back porch and the chocolate Lab is barking from inside the door. Now that I can fully see the house in daylight, its many charms are fully exposed, and what’s more charming about an old farmhouse than a little decay? Paint is peeling, weeds are flourishing, creaky uneven wooden floorboards lead to the back door and I am thoroughly captivated by every detail. I shout hello and he yells for me to come in, the rickety screen door banging shut behind me. I find him busily puttering around his rustic kitchen, surrounded by piles of greens and fruit, bread and olives, a tall vase of wildflowers holding command at the center. The kitchen has a fresh, yeasty smell and I notice a bread machine on the floor, an appliance I haven’t seen in at least 25 years since the one my mother bought me when I was newly married and my entire kitchen was the size of the bread machine. I’m enchanted. If there is an antidote to the ferocity of my emotions of late, I’m certain it may well be found right here in this kitchen with its freshly baked bread and just-picked flowers. I am not sure how to greet him. We are too new for perfunctory kisses hello, but it seems cold and slightly absurd at this point to keep my physical distance. I approach him and he bends down to give me a quick kiss on the lips. It gives me a stabbing pang of sadness, this kiss – the informality and ease of it a reminder of my marriage that I hadn’t realized I missed. The acknowledgement of familiarity embedded in this greeting jars me from my revelry: do I even want this level of ease with a man? It feels too much like it should be happening with Michael instead. My recent forays have been all about sex, but this one is embarking on new territory: intimacy. To mask my confused feelings, I pull out my treasure trove of yearbooks and fan them out for him to see. His face lights up and he grins, pulling me into the living room where we sit on the loveseat and start with the first yearbook, when I was in second grade and he was in fifth. We find my photo first, pint-sized and smiling broadly with a mouth of crooked teeth and a head of unruly curly hair; then we find him, tall, grinning mischievously. We are delighted to find ourselves in the same yearbook from 1979, 39 years earlier. What are the odds?

• From Whipping Girl: A Transsexual Woman on Sexism and the Scapegoating of Femininity (2007)

  For example, some male-bodied crossdressers spend much of their lives wishing they were actually female, while others see their crossdressing as simply a way to express a feminine side of their personalities. While many drag artists view themselves primarily as entertainers or enjoy performing and parodying gender stereotypes, some trans people gravitate toward drag because it provides them with a rare opportunity to express aspects of their subconscious sex in a socially sanctioned setting. And while many trans people identify as genderqueer because it helps them make sense of their own experiences of living in a world where their understanding of themselves differs so greatly from the way they are perceived by society, other people identify as genderqueer because, on a purely intellectual level, they question the validity of the binary gender system. Thus, not only do transgender people vary in their perspectives and experiences, but individuals within the same transgender subcategory (whether it be crossdresser, drag artist, genderqueer, etc.) may also differ greatly in what drives them to embrace that identity. And while this book primarily focuses on transsexuality, and more specifically on trans women (as that is my experience and perspective), it is not because I believe that transgender people who are not transsexual are any less important or legitimate; their expressions of gender are just as valid as mine and the discrimination they may face as a result of those expressions is just as real. It is also crucial for us to recognize that it is equally valid for a trans person to decide to transition and live as the other sex as it is for them to instead choose to blur gender boundaries and identify themselves outside the gender binary. There is no one right way to be trans. Each of us simply needs to figure out what works best for us and what allows us to best express who we feel we are. When discussing transsexuals, it is often necessary to distinguish between those who transition from male to female—who are commonly referred to as trans women —and those who transition from female to male — who are called trans men . I prefer these terms over others because they acknowledge the lived and self-identified gender of the trans person (i.e., woman or man), while adding the adjective “trans” as a way to describe one particular aspect of that person’s life experience. In other words, “trans woman” and “trans man” function in a way similar to the phrases “Catholic woman” or “Asian man.” Because many trans people choose to relieve their gender dissonance in ways other than transitioning, I will often use the phrases male-to-female (MTF) spectrum and female-to-male (FTM) spectrum to describe all trans people (regardless of whether they are genderqueer, transsexual, crossdresser, etc.) who experience their gender as being different from or more complex than the gender they were assigned at birth.

• From Whipping Girl: A Transsexual Woman on Sexism and the Scapegoating of Femininity (2007)

  In those intervening years, my skin has become much softer, my center of gravity has totally shifted, my metabolism has changed, clothing fits my body differently, heavy objects seem to have become much heavier, and room temperature seems to have dropped about two or three degrees. The changes in the shape of my body and in my muscle/fat distribution have significantly altered the way I walk, run, dance, hold my body, and move in general. Simply put, my body no longer feels male to me; rather, it feels female.Of course, body feelings are not the only facet of my being that has contributed to my identity as a woman. As I alluded to earlier, the changes in my social gender—how other people relate to and interact with me—were at least as dramatic as (if not more so than) the physical changes to my body. While being treated as a woman felt foreign to me at first, over time it simply became my everyday life. My identity as a woman grew out of positive experiences, such as feeling comfortable with my own female body. Yet it also arose out of negative ones, such as the regularity with which other people placed unsolicited attention upon my body, whether it was the catcalls and sexual innuendos strangers would sometimes hurl at me or the occasional comments people started to make insinuating that I could stand to lose a little weight (even though I weighed the same as I did before my transition, and nobody saw my weight as a problem back then). My identity as a woman grew out of my frustration over being called a “bitch” any time I stood up for myself, or having others make remarks about my hormone levels any time I became legitimately upset or angry about something. My identity as a woman grew out of my experiences at parties and other social occasions when I would come across a group of men talking and laughing, and witness them suddenly fall silent when I approached. My identity evolved out of a million tiny social exchanges where others made it very clear to me that my status in the world—my class, if you will—was that of a woman and not a man.Not surprisingly, no aspect of my social transition has been more difficult for me to adjust to than the way I am treated by some (but certainly not all) men. Granted, this was not entirely unexpected. Before my transition, I had often asked my female friends about their experiences living as women in a male-centered world.

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

  She marks her life by what she has, not by what she’s lost. I realize that I’ve got resilience in my DNA – hopefully my kids do, too. * A few days later, I drop Hudson at the airport for his trip to a camp in Israel and I am child-free again for the next four days. I head straight from the airport to the Jersey Shore, where my friend Lauren and I have planned a few days together at her condo on the beach. She is my most ardent cheerleader; I am relieved that I won’t have to pull myself together to be with her as she is not skittish around my pain. Our first morning, we bike to a yoga studio to take a class and then to a nearby restaurant for a late breakfast. I had told Lauren I didn’t want to ride a bike – I’m an extremely nervous bike rider – but she had insisted I try her beach cruiser and now as I coast along the wooden slats of the boardwalk, weaving around families toting red wagons filled with sand toys, I don’t know if I’ve ever been more content. Construction workers whistle as we fly by and I wave back cheerfully. I tell Lauren that I’ll take any attention I can get and she laughs and eggs me on, saying, “OK, keep waving to all your new friends, you’re making them very happy.” I feel young and free with a sense of liberty I haven’t known since my 20s. My kids are at camp, they’re settled and busy, and I have no one to take care of aside from myself for the next few days. The utter lack of restraint and responsibility make me giddy. We are lounging with green smoothies and English muffins at an outdoor café when two men park themselves at a table near ours. They’re at least twenty years older than us, excessively tanned and lizard-like. Lauren and I are easily distracted by people around us even when the conversations we’re eavesdropping in on aren’t all that interesting, but this one is a doozy. “I don’t know what’s with Gina. She spent all her money on fake tits and now all she does is complain that she has no money. She was in no position to get them in the first place,” says one. “Well, the cancer,” says the other mournfully. “Sure, it’s not her fault she had to get a double mastectomy but still, if you can’t afford fake tits, you shouldn’t get them.” “You wouldn’t be saying this if it was Marla.” “That’s true, that’s true. I had a lot more patience for Marla.” “You wouldn’t even take Gina out to P.F. Chang’s and a comedy club! You never took her out.” Lauren and I have been rolling our eyes during this conversation, but now I’m looking at her in terror.

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

  The gist of the paschal controversy was, whether the Jewish paschal-day (be it a Friday or not), or the Christian Sunday, should control the idea and time of the entire festival. The Johannean practice of Asia represented here the spirit of adhesion to historical precedent, and had the advantage of an immovable Easter, without being Judaizing in anything but the observance of a fixed day of the month. The Roman custom represented the principle of freedom and discretionary change, and the independence of the Christian festival system. Dogmatically stated, the difference would be, that in the former case the chief stress was laid on the Lord’s death; in the latter, on his resurrection. But the leading interest of the question for the early Church was not the astronomical, nor the dogmatical, but the ritualistic. The main object was to secure uniformity of observance, and to assert the originality of the Christian festive cycle, and its independence of Judaism; for both reasons the Roman usage at last triumphed even in the East. Hence Easter became a movable festival whose date varies from the end of March to the latter part of April. The history of the controversy divides itself into three acts. 1. The difference came into discussion first on a visit of Polycarp, bishop of Smyrna, to Anicetus, bishop of Rome, between A.D. 150 and 155.336 It was not settled; yet the two bishops parted in peace, after the latter had charged his venerable guest to celebrate the holy communion in his church. We have a brief, but interesting account of this dispute by Irenaeus, a pupil of Polycarp, which is as follows:337 "When the blessed Polycarp sojourned at Rome in the days of Anicetus, and they had some little difference of opinion likewise with regard to other points,338 they forthwith came to a peaceable understanding on this head [the observance of Easter], having no love for mutual disputes. For neither could Anicetus persuade Polycarp not to observe339 inasmuch as he [Pol.] had always observed with John, the disciple of our Lord, and the other apostles, with whom he had associated; nor did Polycarp persuade Anicetus to observe Gr. (threi’n) who said that he was bound to maintain the custom of the presbyters (= bishops) before him. These things being so, they communed together; and in the church Anicetus yielded to Polycarp, out of respect no doubt, the

• From The Pisces (2018)

  I wanted no more belongings. On the second-story deck of the beach house I escaped the hell of my own smelly bathrobe, wearing one of the silk kimonos my sister had left behind. I fell asleep out there every night, tipsy on white wine, under the Venice stars, with my feet tucked under Dominic’s gut, belonging to nothing familiar. I felt no pressure to fall asleep, and so, after nine months of insomnia, I was finally able to drift off easily every night. Then at three a.m. I would wake gently and traipse to the bed with the Egyptian cotton sheets, kicking my legs all over them in celebration, rolling around and touching my own skin as though I were a stranger touching someone foreign, or cradling the big back of the dog to my front to die to the world for another eight hours. I might have even been happy. — And yet, walking on Abbot Kinney Boulevard one night at the end of my first week there, passing the windows of the yuppie shops—each their own white cube gallery—I saw two people, a man and a woman, early twenties maybe, definitely on a first or second date, and I knew I still wasn’t okay. They were discussing intently where they should go to eat and drink, as though it really mattered. He had an accent, German, I think, and was handsome and fuckable: hair close-cropped and boyish, strong arms, an Adam’s apple that protruded and made me think of sucking on it. The woman was, as the undergrads at the Arizona university where I worked as a librarian might say, a butterface. For nine years I had been at Southwest State in the dual lit and classics PhD program. Somehow, miraculously, despite having not yet turned in my thesis, they hadn’t withdrawn my funding. In exchange for thirty hours of work per week in the library, I was housed in a below-market-rent apartment off-campus and received a yearly stipend of $25,000. I was supposed to be working on a book-length project entitled “The Accentual Gap: Sappho’s Spaces as Essence.” This year, as a result of my tardiness, I’d been appointed a new advisory committee, comprised of both the classics and English department chairpersons, and I was no longer flying under the radar. In March, I had met with them at a Panera Bread, where they delivered the news over paninis—Napa almond chicken salad for the English chair in her coffee-stained Easter sweater and tuna salad for the classics chair, his nose swollen with rosacea—that I was to have a full draft completed by the fall semester or my funding would be pulled and I would be out.

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

  She marks her life by what she has, not by what she’s lost. I realize that I’ve got resilience in my DNA – hopefully my kids do, too. * A few days later, I drop Hudson at the airport for his trip to a camp in Israel and I am child-free again for the next four days. I head straight from the airport to the Jersey Shore, where my friend Lauren and I have planned a few days together at her condo on the beach. She is my most ardent cheerleader; I am relieved that I won’t have to pull myself together to be with her as she is not skittish around my pain. Our first morning, we bike to a yoga studio to take a class and then to a nearby restaurant for a late breakfast. I had told Lauren I didn’t want to ride a bike – I’m an extremely nervous bike rider – but she had insisted I try her beach cruiser and now as I coast along the wooden slats of the boardwalk, weaving around families toting red wagons filled with sand toys, I don’t know if I’ve ever been more content. Construction workers whistle as we fly by and I wave back cheerfully. I tell Lauren that I’ll take any attention I can get and she laughs and eggs me on, saying, “OK, keep waving to all your new friends, you’re making them very happy.” I feel young and free with a sense of liberty I haven’t known since my 20s. My kids are at camp, they’re settled and busy, and I have no one to take care of aside from myself for the next few days. The utter lack of restraint and responsibility make me giddy. We are lounging with green smoothies and English muffins at an outdoor café when two men park themselves at a table near ours. They’re at least twenty years older than us, excessively tanned and lizard-like. Lauren and I are easily distracted by people around us even when the conversations we’re eavesdropping in on aren’t all that interesting, but this one is a doozy. “I don’t know what’s with Gina. She spent all her money on fake tits and now all she does is complain that she has no money. She was in no position to get them in the first place,” says one. “Well, the cancer,” says the other mournfully. “Sure, it’s not her fault she had to get a double mastectomy but still, if you can’t afford fake tits, you shouldn’t get them.” “You wouldn’t be saying this if it was Marla.” “That’s true, that’s true. I had a lot more patience for Marla.” “You wouldn’t even take Gina out to P.F. Chang’s and a comedy club! You never took her out.” Lauren and I have been rolling our eyes during this conversation, but now I’m looking at her in terror.

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

  and then a bishop, wrote in the middle of the fifth century (he died c. 450) a brief manual of mediaeval hermeneutics under the title Liber Formularum Spiritalis Intelligentiae (Rom., 1564, etc., in Migne’s "Patrol." Tom. 50, col. 727–772). This work is often quoted by Bede and is sometimes erroneously ascribed to him. Eucherius shows an extensive knowledge of the Bible and a devout spirit. He anticipates many favorite interpretations of mediaeval commentators and mystics. He vindicates the allegorical method from the Scripture itself, and from its use of anthropomorphic and anthropopathic expressions which can not be understood literally. Yet he allows the literal sense its proper place in history as well as the moral and mystical. He identifies the Finger of God (Digitus Dei) with the Spirit of God (cap. 2; comp. Luke 11:20 with Matt. 12:28), and explains the several meanings of Jerusalem (ecclesia, vel anima, cap. 10), ark (caro Dominica, corda sanctorum Deo plena, ecclesia intra quam salvanda clauduntur), Babylon (mundus, Roma, inimici), fures (haeretici et pseudoprophetae, gentes, vitia), chirographum, pactum, praeputium, circumcisio, etc. In the last chapter he treats of the symbolical significance of numbers, as 1=Divine Unity; 2=the two covenants, the two chief commandments; 3=the trinity in heaven and on earth (he quotes the spurious passage 1 John 5:7); 4=the four Gospels, the four rivers of Paradise; 5=the five books of Moses, five loaves, five wounds of Christ (John 20:25); 6=the days of creation, the ages of the world; 7=the day of rest, of perfection; 8=the day of resurrection; 10=the Decalogue; 12=the Apostles, the universal multitude of believers, etc. The theory of the fourfold interpretation was more fully developed by Rabanus Maurus (776–856), in his curious book, Allegoriae in Universam Sacram Scripturam (Opera, ed. Migne, Tom. VI. col. 849–1088). He calls the four senses the four daughters of wisdom, by whom she nourishes her children, giving to beginners drink in lacte historiae, to the believers food in pane allegoriae, to those engaged in good works encouragement in refectione tropologiae, to those longing for heavenly rest delight in vino anagogiae. He also gives the following definition at the beginning of the treatise: "Historia ad aptam rerum gestarum narrationem pertinet, quae et in superficie litterae continetur, et sic intelligitur sicut legitur. Allegoria vero aliquid in se plus continet, quod per hoc quod locus [loquens] de rei veritate ad quiddam dat intelligendum de fidei puritate, et sanctae Ecclesiae mysteria, sive praesentia, sive futura, aliud dicens, aliud significans, semper autem figmentis et velatis ostendit. Tropologia quoque et ipsa, sicut allegoria, in figuratis, sive dictis, sive factis, constat: sed in hoc ab allegoria distat quod Allegoria quidem fidem, Tropologia vero aedificat moralitem. Anagogia autem, sive velatis, sive apertis dictis, de aeternis supernae patriae gaudiis constat, et quae merces vel fidem rectam, vel vitam maneat sanctam, verbis vel opertis, vel apertis demonstrat.

• From In Search of Paul: How Jesus's Apostle Opposed Rome's Empire with God's Kingdom (2005)

  In The Unconquerable World, Jonathan Schell’s book about violence and nonviolence, he quotes Gandhi’s statement about truth-force, or satyagraha (sat, “truth” graha, “steadfastness”): “Satyagraha is not predominantly civil disobedience, but a quiet and irresistible pursuit of truth. On the rarest occasions it becomes civil disobedience.” Opposition to the British Raj was necessary, but not primary. “Why worry one’s head,” said Gandhi, over a demise “that is inevitable?…That is why I can take the keenest interest in discussing vitamins and leafy vegetables and unpolished rice” (139–40). Opposition to the Raj was negative and secondary, even if necessary, but when the British were gone, India’s fundamental problems would still be there. What were his primary and positive goals? “For Gandhi,” concludes Schell, “ending untouchability, cleaning latrines, improving the diet of Indian villagers, improving the lot of Indian women, making peace between Muslims and Hindus—through all of which he believed he would find God—were such goals” (142). That is why Gandhi was assassinated not by a British imperialist, but by a Hindu fundamentalist. Schell moves next from Gandhi’s steadfastness in truth to Havel’s living within the truth. After “the succession of defeated rebellions against Soviet domination in East Germany (1953), Poland (1956), Hungary (1956), and Czechoslovakia (1968)” three different author-activists, Adam Michnik in Poland, Gyorgy Konrád in Hungary, and Václav Havel in Czechoslovakia agreed on the “same practical counsel that…it was a mistake to try to overthrow the system. Activism should be directed at achieving immediate changes in daily life” through an “unshakable commitment to achieving modest, concrete goals on the local level” (191, 193). For more detail, we turn next to two essays by Havel himself. Both “The Power of the Powerless” (October 1978) and “Politics and Conscience” (February 1984) are available in the edited collection, Living in Truth. First, Havel insists on the ordinary needs of life in the localized here and now. Activist struggle “must pose questions, as it were, ad hoc, out of a concrete consideration of the authentic needs of life.” It consists of “a real, everyday struggle for a better life ‘here and now’” (1978: 89). Because of its emphasis on the negative, he keeps the word dissident in quotation marks, but “an essential part of the ‘dissident’ attitude is that it comes out of the reality of the human ‘here and now’. It places more importance on often repeated and consistent concrete action—even though it may be inadequate and though it may ease only insignificantly the suffering of a single insignificant citizen—than it does in some abstract ‘fundamental solution’ in an uncertain future” (1978: 99). Second, there is the question of violent action to achieve those day-today, here-and-now objectives of living within the truth in ordinary life. He argues, “Generally, the ‘dissident’ attitude can only accept violence as a necessary evil in extreme situations, when direct violence can only be met by violence” (1978: 92). More fully,

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Sitting back in the car she half closed her eyes; just at that moment she did not want to speak lest her voice should betray that flinching to Mary. CHAPTER 53 1 W ith Martin’s return Stephen realized how very deeply she had missed him; how much she still needed the thing he now offered, how long indeed she had starved for just this—the friendship of a normal and sympathetic man whose mentality being very much her own, was not only welcome but reassuring. Yes, strange though it was, with this normal man she was far more at ease than with Jonathan Brockett, far more at one with all his ideas, and at times far less conscious of her own inversion; though it seemed that Martin had not only read, but had thought a great deal about the subject. He spoke very little of his studies, however, just accepting her now for the thing that she was, without question, and accepting most of her friends with a courtesy as innocent of patronage as of any suspicion of morbid interest. And thus it was that in these first days they appeared to have achieved a complete reunion. Only sometimes, when Mary would talk to him freely as she did very often of such people as Wanda, of the night life of the cafés and bars of Paris—most of which it transpired he himself had been to—of the tragedy of Barbara and Jamie that was never very far from her thoughts, even although a most perfect spring was hurrying forward towards the summer—when Mary would talk to him of these things, Martin would look rather gravely at Stephen. But now they seldom went to the bars, for Martin provided recreations that were really much more to Mary’s liking. Martin the kindly, the thoroughly normal, seemed never at a loss as to what they should do or where they should go when in search of pleasure. By now he knew Paris extremely well, and the Paris he showed them during that spring came as a complete revelation to Mary. He would often take them to dine in the Bois. At the neighbouring tables would be men and women; neat, well tailored men; pretty, smartly dressed women who laughed and talked very conscious of sex and its vast importance—in a word, normal women. Or perhaps they would go to Claridge’s for tea or to Giro’s for dinner, and then on to supper at an equally fashionable restaurant, of which Mary discovered there were many in Paris.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Then she threw her strong arm around his neck, and they talked together for quite a long while—not in Irish or English but in a quiet language having very few words but many small sounds and many small movements, that meant much more than words. ‘Since you went I’ve discovered a wonderful thing,’ he told her, ‘I’ve discovered that for me you are God. It’s like that some times with us humbler people, we may only know God through His human image.’ ‘Raftery,’ she murmured, ‘oh, Raftery, my dear—I was so young when you came to Morton. Do you remember that first day out hunting when you jumped the huge hedge in our big north paddock? What a jump! It ought to go down to history. You were splendidly cool and collected about it. Thank the Lord you were—I was only a kid, all the same it was very foolish of us, Raftery.’ She gave him a carrot, which he took with contentment from the hand of his God, and proceeded to munch. And she watched him munch it, contented in her turn, hoping that the carrot was succulent and sweet; hoping that his innocent cup of pleasure might be full to the brim and overflowing. Like God indeed, she tended his needs, mixing the evening meal in his manger, holding the water bucket to his lips while he sucked in the cool, clear, health-giving water. A groom came along with fresh trusses of straw which he opened and tossed among Raftery’s bedding; then he took off the smart blue and red day clothing, and buckled him up in a warm night blanket. Beyond in the far loose box by the window, Sir Philip’s young chestnut kicked loudly for supper. ‘Woa horse! Get up there! Stop kicking them boards!’ And the groom hurried off to attend to the chestnut. Collins, who had spat out his two lumps of sugar, was now busy indulging his morbid passion. His sides were swollen well-nigh to bursting—blown out like an air balloon was old Collins from the evil and dyspeptic effects of the straw, plus his own woeful lack of molars. He stared at Stephen with whitish-blue eyes that saw nothing, and when she touched him he grunted—a discourteous sound which meant: ‘Leave me alone!’ So after a mild reproof she left him to his sins and his indigestion.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Then Mademoiselle spoke at great length of her aunt, and of Maman who had also passed on into glory; Maman, who had had her chicken on Sunday right up to the very last moment, Dieu merci! Even when her teeth had grown loose in the gums, Maman had asked for her chicken on Sunday. But alas, the poor sister who once made little bags out of beads for the shops in the Rue de la Paix, and who had such a cruel and improvident husband—the poor sister had now become totally blind, and therefore dependent on Mademoiselle Duphot. So after all Mademoiselle Duphot still worked, giving lessons in French to the resident English; and sometimes she taught the American children who were visiting Paris with their parents. But then it was really far better to work; one might grow too fat if one remained idle. She beamed at Stephen with her gentle brown eyes. ‘They are not as you were, ma chère petite Stévenne, not clever and full of intelligence, no; and at times I almost despair of their accent. However, I am not at all to be pitied, thanks to Aunt Clothilde and the good little saints who surely inspired her to leave me that money.’ When Stephen and Puddle returned to their stalls, Mademoiselle climbed to a humbler seat somewhere under the roof, and as she departed she waved her plump hand at Stephen. Stephen said: ‘She’s so changed that I didn’t know her just at first, or else perhaps I’d forgotten. I felt terribly guilty, because after you came I don’t think I ever answered her letters. It’s thirteen years since she left. . . .’ Puddle nodded. ‘Yes, it’s thirteen years since I took her place and forced you to tidy that abominable schoolroom!’ And she laughed. ‘All the same, I like her,’ said Puddle. 3Mademoiselle Duphot admired the house in the Rue Jacob, and she ate very largely of the rich and excellent dinner. Quite regardless of her increasing proportions, she seemed drawn to all those things that were fattening. ‘I cannot resist,’ she remarked with a smile, as she reached for her fifth marron glacé. They talked of Paris, of its beauty, its charm. Then Mademoiselle spoke yet again of her Maman and of Aunt Clothilde who had left them the money, and of Julie, her blind sister. But after the meal she quite suddenly blushed. ‘Oh, Stévenne, I have never inquired for your parents! What must you think of such great impoliteness? I lose my head the moment I see you and grow selfish—I want you to know about me and my Maman; I babble about my affairs. What must you think of such great impoliteness? How is that kind and handsome Sir Philip? And your mother, my dear, how is Lady Anna?’