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 156 of 189 · 20 per page

• From Love 2.0: Finding Happiness and Health in Moments of Connection (2013)

  The truth is that there’s no such ladder. When it comes to the things that matter most, others are neither beneath you nor above you. Time and again, studies show that the happiest among us are the ones who’ve simply shed this pernicious habit of social comparison. When you learn to see others through the lens of sameness, instead of through the lenses of downward and upward comparisons, you come to recognize that others’ difficulties are also your own difficulties, either at present, or at some past or plausible future moment. You also recognize that their good fortune doesn’t subtract from your own, and it does you no harm whatsoever to celebrate it. Indeed, you multiply your own riches when you do so. Love’s boundaries, as we’ve seen, need not be constricted, its vision need not be myopic. Love is both open and caring. While love like this obeys the bedrock preconditions of safety and connection, and is in part defined by some form of shared positivity, it does not hinge at all on you and another sharing precisely the same positive emotional state. Given the many factors that shape each person’s emotions, an exact matching of inner experience would be exceedingly rare and can hardly be expected. Fortunately, love doesn’t require the absence of unpleasantness or misfortune. Nor does it require the presence of any certain form of pleasantness or good fortune. Awareness of these fundamental truths opens the entire spectrum of human experience as opportune moments to cultivate positivity resonance. Whether in sickness or in health, good fate or bad, love remains possible. In this chapter, I share techniques for accessing two forms of love that may perhaps be less intuitive to you: loving through and despite another’s suffering, and loving through and despite another’s good fortune. Compassion: Meeting Suffering with Love By nature’s design, we all recoil from pain. Suppose you’re cooking dinner with brand-new cookware and mistakenly pick up that fancy, all-metal, oven-ready pot lid, forgetting to use a pot holder. It’s only natural that you drop the lid in a clamor as you yank your hand away. The haste of your recoil probably spares several layers of skin. And so it may seem with suffering of all sorts. Your first instinct may often be to look, leap, or pull away, or otherwise hang back. Increasing your distance from the source of pain can seem like the best way to spare yourself the added suffering that may come from being too close to it.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  —Lamento eso —dice tomando de nuevo su hamburguesa—. No sucederá mucho. Cole es muy bueno evitando los lugares donde estoy. Asiento, sin saber qué más decir. De todos modos, tengo la sensación de que no estaré aquí mucho tiempo. Ya siento que estoy caminando por la cuerda floja. Me obligo a comer, porque esto no sabrá bien como sobras mañana. La música se escucha desde afuera, el zumbido de una podadora cobra vida en la distancia, y el aroma del césped golpea el fondo de mi garganta cuando entra por las ventanas abiertas, las sencillas cortinas beige de la casa de Pike se mueven con la brisa que entra. Escalofríos cubren mis brazos. Verano. Un teléfono suena, y veo a Pike estirarse y tomar su teléfono de la isla. —Hola —responde. Suena la voz de un hombre del otro lado, pero no puedo escuchar lo que dice. Pike se levanta, cargando su plato hacia el fregadero con una mano y sosteniendo el teléfono con la otra, y echo una ojeada mientras está distraído. Las bromas de Cam sobre él siguen viniendo a mí, calentándome las mejillas, pero no es así. Pike es un misterio. Vi fotografías de él y Cole en la sala de estar, de bebé y de niño, pero aparte de eso, la casa no tiene mucho de su padre. Sé que es un tipo soltero, pero no hay libros sobre la mesa de centro que muestren sus intereses, no hay recuerdos de vacaciones, ni mascotas, ni arte, ni adornos, ni revistas, ninguna parafernalia que indique sus pasatiempos como deportes, juegos, o música… es una casa hermosa, pero es como una casa de exhibición donde en realidad no vive una familia. —No, necesito otra excavadora y al menos cien bolsas más de cemento —le dice al tipo, sosteniendo el teléfono entre su hombro y oreja, y subiendo más sus mangas abre el grifo. Sonrío para mí misma. Está lavando los platos. ¿Sin que se le pida? Suelto un suspiro y me levanto del asiento. Supongo que normalmente vive solo, después de todo. ¿Quién más lo haría? Se ríe ante algo que le dice el tipo y sacude la cabeza, mientras limpio mi plato en la basura. —Dile a ese imbécil que no está enfermo —exige al teléfono—, y que si no sale de donde sea que esté metido en la mañana, iré y lo buscaré yo mismo. Quiero seguir adelantado a la programación. Voy a su lado y suavemente dejo mi plato en el mostrador antes de poner la limonada y condimentos de regreso en el refrigerador. —Sí, sí… —lo escucho mientras enjuaga los platos, y los pone en el lavaplatos—, bien, te veré por la mañana. Cuelga y deja el teléfono, y le lanzo otra rápida mirada. —¿Trabajo? —pregunto. Asiente, echando algo en un vaso y tirándolo.

• From Love 2.0: Finding Happiness and Health in Moments of Connection (2013)

  Self-love, by contrast, is steadier, more peaceful. This inherent calm arises because it’s not predicated on good outcomes. You can learn to be a friend to yourself through thick and thin, through good times and bad. Indeed, it’s in the toughest times that harboring compassion toward yourself makes the biggest difference. Practice standing by your own side during hard times, with openness and goodwill, and you’ll appreciate the steady security self-love offers you. It safeguards you from plunging into despair. Self-love buys you even more. It’s the currency in which all other forms of positivity resonance trade. When your reserves of self-love are low, you can scarcely meet the gaze of others, seeing yourself as either beneath or above them. A chasm forms between you and others that slashes your odds of forging true connections. Yet when you practice and bank self-love, you become rich with emotional reserves. You’re more able to recognize sources of goodness in others, to see and fulfill others’ yearnings to connect, no matter their circumstances. The next chapter describes how to do just that. CHAPTER 7 Loving Others, in Sickness and in Health WHAT IS RICH? ARE YOU RICH ENOUGH TO HELP ANYBODY? —Ralph Waldo Emerson Love, in its old-school version, seems to love similarity. Study upon study bears this out. People are most drawn to others who share roughly their same level of physical attractiveness, their same degree of financial wealth, their same physical abilities, their same lot in life. Each person, then, tends to have a small, circumscribed set of “loved ones” whose beauty, wealth, health, and ability are not too different from their own. Your attraction to similar others seems to keep the playing field level. Yet attraction like this also stratifies. Seeking similarity in your companions invites endless social comparisons as you continually size people up, judging whether they’re worse off or better off than you. When you judge others as having it worse than you, you may even feel relief at your own relative good fortune. Or maybe you feel some form of aversion: pity for their plight, fear that their unfortunate lot in life may one day be your own, or unspoken anger at them for bringing their misfortune on themselves. Regardless of which emotions emerge as you look down on others, the distinctions you’ve already made between you and them—and the judgments that go with it—create a gulf between you, a gulf that erodes your potential for authentic love. A similar gulf forms when you judge others as better off than you. When you see others as having more than you—more beauty, more wealth, more happiness—you come to see yourself as relatively disadvantaged. This can stoke fires of envy, or of self-pity. In looking up to others in this comparative way you stratify your social world into haves and have-nots.

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  There were eight places set - two of them vacant and waiting, clearly, for Kitty and me, but the rest all taken. Mrs Dendy herself was seated at the head of the table; she was in the process of dishing out slices from a plate of cold meats, but half rose when she saw us, to bid us make ourselves at home, and to gesture, with her fork, to the other diners - first to an elderly gentleman in a velvet waistcoat who sat opposite to her. ‘Professor Emery,’ she said, without a hint of self-consciousness. ‘Mentalist Extraordinary.’ The Professor rose then, too, to make us a little bow. ‘Mentalist Extraordinary, ah, as was,’ he said with a glance at our landlady. ‘Mrs Dendy is too kind. It has been many years since I last stood before a hushed and gaping crowd, guessing at the contents of a lady’s purse.’ He smiled, then sat rather heavily. Kitty said that she was very pleased to know him. Mrs Dendy pointed next to a thin, red-headed boy on the Professor’s right. ‘Sims Willis,’ she said. ‘Corner Man — ’ ‘Comer Man Extraordinary, of course,’ he said quickly, leaning to shake our hands. ‘As is. And this’ - nodding to another boy across the table from himself - ‘this is Percy, my brother, who plays the Bones. He’s also extraordinary.’ As he spoke Percy gave a wink and, as if to prove his brother’s words, caught up a pair of spoons from the side of his plate, and set them rattling upon the tablecloth in a wonderful tattoo. Mrs Dendy cleared her throat above the noise, then gestured to the pretty, pink-lipped girl who had the seat next to Sims. ‘And not forgetting Miss Flyte, our ballerina.’ The girl gave a simper. ‘You must call me Lydia,’ she said, extending a hand, ‘which is what I am known as at - do cheese it, Percy! - what I am known as at the Pav. Or Monica, if you prefer, which is my real name.’ ‘Or Tootsie,’ added Sims, ‘which is what her pals all call her - and if you’ve read Ally Sloper’s I’ll leave you to work out why. Only let me say, Miss Butler, that she was in half a panic when Walter told us he was moving you in, lest you turn out to be some flashy show-girl with a ten-inch waist. When she learned you were a male impersonator, why, she turned quite gentle with relief.’ Tootsie gave him a push. ‘Pay no mind to him,’ she said to us, ‘he is always teasing.

• From Love 2.0: Finding Happiness and Health in Moments of Connection (2013)

  Making matters more complicated, eyes-closed positivity is a double-edged sword. At times it can actually be useful. No doubt you’ve heard the phrase: “Fake it ’til you make it.” At times, that can be great advice. My caveat, though, is while you’re faking your positivity, you’re merely seeking a springboard into the real thing. You are not reaping the benefits of genuine positivity. The other side of the sword is blunt and causes far more damage. Eyes-closed positivity cuts you off from precious opportunities to access true positivity. This happens when you strive to find bliss in your safe cocoon, mistaking it as the end, not the means. Although self-praise and other forms of positive self-talk can seem like good strategies for increasing your well-being, whether or not they are depends on whether you “walk the talk.” Put differently, knowing whether your self-talk is positive or negative simply isn’t enough. The positivity you harbor for yourself needs to be fully embodied. Indeed, all true emotions are embodied. “Wishful thinking” positivity, by contrast, remains forever imprisoned within your mind. It does you little good up there, remaining just talk. The embodied positive regard in which you hold yourself has all the markers of a truly positive emotion: It opens you, relaxes you, and helps you see the larger tapestry of life in which you are embedded. It doesn’t tempt you to shun negative feedback or failure. Rather, it supports you, like a well of reserved resources, when you need to take a close look at the hard facts of your life. Above all, genuine, heartfelt self-love is flexible and grounded in reality. These critical ingredients are missing from much of the positive self-talk prescribed in the self-help industry: flexibility, openness, and realism. Absent these attributes, positive self-talk can morph into cold-blooded narcissism. It becomes inner chatter that in fact serves to insulate you from healing connections with others. It drugs you into thinking that while you’ve got your own life together, most other people decidedly do not, and therefore they’re hardly worth your time. Smugness can prevent you from being a true friend to yourself. The key to knowing whether self-correction or self-congratulations are in order is to assess the degree to which either is commensurate with your actual circumstances. This is where the classic tools of cognitive behavioral therapy can work wonders. What evidence backs up your self-talk? Is any evidence being ignored or distorted? Are there parts of the bigger picture that you are conveniently keeping out of view, whether negative or positive? The idea is to check your self-talk against the full reality of the situation as evenhandedly as you can. Whatever your tally of self-criticism or self-aggrandizement amounts to, this same number represents the opportunities you have each day to practice something altogether different: gentleness instead of harshness, openness instead of tightness, flexibility instead of rigidity, an inner smile instead of that all-too-familiar inner scowl. This is what learning to be a true friend to yourself entails.

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

  The disaster of Cappel produced a reaction, and a portion of the canton returned to the old church. A new abbot was elected, Diethelm Blaurer; he demanded the property of the convent and sixty thousand guilders damages for what had been destroyed and sold. The city had to yield. He held a solemn entry. He attended the last session of the Council of Trent and took a leading part in the counter-Reformation. Watt showed, during this critical period, courage and moderation. He retained the confidence of his fellow-citizens, who elected him nine times to the highest civil office. He did what he could, in co-operation with Kessler and Bullinger, to save and consolidate the Reformed Church during the remaining years of his life. He was a portly, handsome, and dignified man, and wrote a number of geographical, historical, and theological works.203 John Kessler (Chessellius or Ahenarius), the son of a day-laborer of St. Gall, studied theology at Basel, and Wittenberg. He was one of the two students who had an interesting interview with Dr. Luther in the hotel of the Black Bear at Jena in March, 1522, on his return as Knight George from the Wartburg.204 It was the only friendly meeting of Luther with the Swiss. Had he shown the same kindly feeling to Zwingli at Marburg, the cause of the Reformation would have been the gainer. Kessler supported himself by the trade of a saddler, and preached in the city and surrounding villages. He was also chief teacher of the Latin school. In 1571, a year before his death, he was elected Antistes or head of the clergy of St. Gall. He had a wife and eleven children, nine of whom survived him. He was a pure, amiable, unselfish, and useful man and promoter of evangelical religion. His portrait in oil adorns the City Library of St. Gall. The county of Toggenburg, the home of Zwingli, was subject to the abbot of St. Gall since 1468, but gladly received the Reformed preachers under the influence of Zwingli, his relatives and friends. In 1524 the council of the community enjoined upon the ministers to teach nothing but what they could prove from the sacred Scriptures. The people resisted the interference of the abbot, the bishop of Constance, and the canton Schwyz. In 1528 the Reformation was generally introduced in the towns of the district. With the help of Zürich and Glarus, the Toggenburgers bought their freedom from the abbot of St. Gall for fifteen hundred guilders, in 1530; but were again subjected to his authority in 1536. The county was incorporated in the canton St. Gall in 1803. The majority of the people are Protestants.

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  When the rugs were beaten I swept the fireplace in the parlour; then I found some blacklead in the pantry, and began to dab at it with that. I had not leaded a grate since I left home - though I had seen Zena blacking Diana’s fireplaces a hundred times, and remembered it as rather easy labour. In fact, of course, it was tricky, filthy work, and kept me busy for an hour, and left me feeling not a half so blithe as I had been at first. Still, however, I didn’t stop to rest. I swept the floors, and then I scrubbed them; then I washed the kitchen tiles, and then the range, and then the kitchen window. I did not like to venture upstairs, but the parlour and the kitchen, and even the privy and the yard, I worked upon until they fairly gleamed; until every surface that was meant to shine, shone; until every colour was vivid, rather than dulled and paled by dust. My final triumph was the front doorstep: this I swept and washed, and finally scrubbed with a piece of hearthstone until it was as white as any doorstep in the street - and my arms, which had been black with lead, were streaked with chalk from my fingernails to my elbows. I knelt for a few moments when I had finished it, admiring the effect and stretching my aching back, too warmed with work to be bothered by the January breezes. Then I saw a figure emerge from the house next door, and looked up to see a little girl in a tattered frock and a pair of over-large boots pigeon-stepping her way towards me with a spilling mug of tea. ‘Mother says you must be fairly fagged, and to give you this,’ she said. Then she ducked her head. ‘But I’m to stay with you while you drink it, to make sure we get the cup back.’ The tea had been made murky with a bit of skim-milk, and was terribly sweet. I drank it quickly, while the girl shivered and stamped her feet. ‘No school for you today?’ I asked her. ‘Not today. It’s wash-day, and Mother needs me at home to keep the babies out from under her heels.’ All the while she talked to me she kept her eyes fixed on my shorn head. Her own hair was fair, and - much as mine had used to - dribbled down between her jutting shoulder-blades in a long, untidy plait. It was now about half-past three, and when I returned to Florence’s kitchen to wash my filthy hands and arms I found the house had grown quite dark. I removed my apron, and lit a lamp; then I took a few minutes to wander between the rooms, gazing at the transformation I had effected. I thought, like a child, How pleased they will be! How pleased...

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Está feliz en mi casa, está segura allí, tiene una cama y no hay jodidos ratones. Es así de simple. Sí. Así de simple. Después de un momento, la escucho inhalar tranquilamente mientras se estira y toma su cinturón de seguridad, abrochándolo. Trago. —Están pasando Fright Night en Netflix —dice—. ¿Mitad de pepperoni y mitad de taco? Sonrío. Girándome hacia ella, veo sus ojos azules mirándome con el mismo humor que tenía cuando estábamos cortando la sandía el otro día. Vuelvo a poner el auto en marcha y asiento. —Llama —le digo—. La recogeremos de camino a casa. Llegamos a un nuevo acuerdo. Básicamente, ahora soy una arrendataria y aunque el objetivo final es vivir aquí y ahorrar dinero para mi propio lugar en algún momento, no puedo vivir de él como lo estuve haciendo. Quizás pude haber inventado excusas cuando era la novia de Cole, pero ahora, esto tiene que ser justo. Sin importar lo mucho que se oponga. —No necesito tus cuarenta dólares al mes para la cuenta del gas, Jordan. —Entonces déjame pagar el recibo de la luz. —¿Por qué te diría que te quedaras aquí para ahorrar dinero y luego te pediría gastar más dinero? —Estoy ahorrando dinero. Y puedo seguir ahorrando dinero mientras pago al menos una de las facturas, Pike. —O podrías no pagar ninguna factura, ahorrar incluso más dinero y solo irte de aquí más rápido. Y entonces eso me molestó, como si realmente no me quisiera aquí, después de todo. —No, espera. —Se encoge—. No quise que sonara así. Solo... no necesito tu dinero, ¿está bien? Vamos a dejar de hablar ahora. ¿Por favor? Pero no lo hicimos. Seguimos discutiendo hasta que finalmente cedió y me dejó pagar la factura del gas y de los víveres, aunque me hizo prometerle que no remplazaría sus botanas con ninguna cosa orgánica o baja en grasa, con lo que estuve de acuerdo. Si me atrapa cambiando a hurtadillas el café y la leche de almendras, solo le diré que lo olvidé. Llevando la escoba hasta el porche delantero, levanto el tapete de bienvenida y lo sacudo antes de colgarlo sobre el barandal. Afuera llueve torrencialmente y las calles lucen como la parte blanca de las olas del océano mientras las gotas de lluvia caen y salpican el suelo. Me pregunto qué tan bien podrá Pike ver las calles de camino a casa. Aunque todavía es alrededor de la una de la tarde, y aún hay luz afuera, solo que está bastante gris, así que podría dejar de llover antes que salga del trabajo. Paso la escoba sobre el porche de madera, protegido de la lluvia por el saliente.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Está feliz en mi casa, está segura allí, tiene una cama y no hay jodidos ratones. Es así de simple. Sí. Así de simple. Después de un momento, la escucho inhalar tranquilamente mientras se estira y toma su cinturón de seguridad, abrochándolo. Trago. —Están pasando Fright Night en Netflix —dice—. ¿Mitad de pepperoni y mitad de taco? Sonrío. Girándome hacia ella, veo sus ojos azules mirándome con el mismo humor que tenía cuando estábamos cortando la sandía el otro día. Vuelvo a poner el auto en marcha y asiento. —Llama —le digo—. La recogeremos de camino a casa. Llegamos a un nuevo acuerdo. Básicamente, ahora soy una arrendataria y aunque el objetivo final es vivir aquí y ahorrar dinero para mi propio lugar en algún momento, no puedo vivir de él como lo estuve haciendo. Quizás pude haber inventado excusas cuando era la novia de Cole, pero ahora, esto tiene que ser justo. Sin importar lo mucho que se oponga. —No necesito tus cuarenta dólares al mes para la cuenta del gas, Jordan. —Entonces déjame pagar el recibo de la luz. —¿Por qué te diría que te quedaras aquí para ahorrar dinero y luego te pediría gastar más dinero? —Estoy ahorrando dinero. Y puedo seguir ahorrando dinero mientras pago al menos una de las facturas, Pike. —O podrías no pagar ninguna factura, ahorrar incluso más dinero y solo irte de aquí más rápido. Y entonces eso me molestó, como si realmente no me quisiera aquí, después de todo. —No, espera. —Se encoge—. No quise que sonara así. Solo... no necesito tu dinero, ¿está bien? Vamos a dejar de hablar ahora. ¿Por favor? Pero no lo hicimos. Seguimos discutiendo hasta que finalmente cedió y me dejó pagar la factura del gas y de los víveres, aunque me hizo prometerle que no remplazaría sus botanas con ninguna cosa orgánica o baja en grasa, con lo que estuve de acuerdo. Si me atrapa cambiando a hurtadillas el café y la leche de almendras, solo le diré que lo olvidé. Llevando la escoba hasta el porche delantero, levanto el tapete de bienvenida y lo sacudo antes de colgarlo sobre el barandal. Afuera llueve torrencialmente y las calles lucen como la parte blanca de las olas del océano mientras las gotas de lluvia caen y salpican el suelo. Me pregunto qué tan bien podrá Pike ver las calles de camino a casa. Aunque todavía es alrededor de la una de la tarde, y aún hay luz afuera, solo que está bastante gris, así que podría dejar de llover antes que salga del trabajo. Paso la escoba sobre el porche de madera, protegido de la lluvia por el saliente.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Nueve años después Un trueno perfora el silencio y despierto con un parpadeo mientras los rayos destellan en la habitación. Suspiro, frotándome los ojos con mi pulgar e índice. Más lluvia, maldita sea. Nop. No es mi trabajo preocuparme por ello durante las siguientes dos semanas, así que no voy a hacerlo. Dutch puede encargarse, tengo que creer eso. Jordan y yo nos vamos en la mañana y él está a cargo mientras no estoy. Le prometí que ella y los chicos tendrían mi completa atención mientras estamos lejos, siempre y cuando deje su ordenador portátil en casa y tampoco intente trabajar en nada. El problema con ella es que su trabajo también es su afición, así que en parte me siento mal pidiéndole que se aleje de algo que ama. Pero tiene razón. Los niños necesitan vernos sin nuestros ojos enterrados en alguna pantalla. Vuelvo mi cabeza, bajando la mirada a ella junto a mí. Está acurrucada de costado, su nariz y labios enterrados en mi brazo con una mano sobre mi pecho y hombro. Su cabello largo hasta los hombros está extendido por la almohada y bajo la mano y levanto la sábana sobre sus piernas desnudas y bragas blancas. Lleva la camiseta amarilla que compró en nuestra luna de miel en México, y todavía no puedo decir que está embarazada de cuatro meses con nuestro segundo hijo. Nuestro primero, Jake, está dormido en su habitación por el pasillo. Jake Ryan Lawson. Le puso el nombre de algún tipo de una película adolescente de los ochenta, pero eso no se le digo a la gente. Ella puede decirles, pero yo ciertamente no voy a hacerlo. Pongo mi mano en su muslo y miro fijamente al techo. Tengo cuarenta y ocho años. ¿Qué asuntos tengo con un hijo de seis años y otro niño en camino? Pero maldición, soy feliz. El repiqueteo de la lluvia golpea los cristales de la ventana y siento a Jordan respirando muy pacíficamente a mi lado. Cierro los ojos. Mía. Mi casa, mi esposa, mi familia... mía. A veces, estoy tan abrumado por cuán afortunado soy, que no puedo

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Pero justo entonces, aparece una Corona frente a mí y levanto la mirada para ver a Jordan parada a mi lado. —Hola —dice, su expresión es suave y gentil. Estoy seguro que sería así todo el tiempo si simplemente dejara de joderlo todo. —¿Estás bien, cariño? —le pregunta Dutch. Ella lo mira y sonríe y luego vuelve a mirarme. —En realidad, iba a llamarte —dice, bajando la voz—. No sé si te vas a quedar hasta tarde, pero me preguntaba si había alguna forma de que pudieras llevarme a casa esta noche. No salgo hasta las dos. ¿Es demasiado tarde? Sus ojos se disculpan como si temiera ser un inconveniente, pero por supuesto, le dije que me dijera si necesitaba que la llevaran a casa. Estoy feliz de hacerlo. —No hay problema. Aquí estaré. Pero Dutch empuja mi codo. —Tenemos que estar en el sitio a las cinco de la mañana, solo recuerda. —Está bien —digo secamente, apenas mirándolo. Por supuesto, me encantaría dormir más de un par de horas, pero esta no es una elección. Jordan da un paso atrás. —¿Estás seguro? —pregunta nuevamente—. Podría preguntarle a Shel. Está un poco fuera de su camino, pero no quiero que pierdas horas de sueño. —Está bien —le aseguro—. Aquí estaré. —Bueno, ¿por qué no simplemente le das tus llaves? —dice Dutch—. Te dejaré en casa y ella puede llevarse tu camioneta. De todos modos, me iré de aquí pronto. Hijo de... ¿Cuál es su maldito problema? Pero Jordan se apresura a intervenir, disculpándose. —No, no, está bien. Puedo... —Mierda, dije que estaba bien —digo bruscamente, callando a todos. Luego miro a Dutch—. ¿Te podrías callar? Se da vuelta, frunciendo los labios, porque quiere malditamente sonreír como si supiera algo. Todos se quedan quietos por un momento, sacudo la cabeza, sacando mis llaves del bolsillo. No hay ninguna razón lógica para esperarla si Dutch me ofrece un aventón ahora.

• From Best Erotica & Sexual Deviance Narratives Ever Written (2024)

  To these pupils then of hers, whom she had prepared, she presented me as a new boarder, and one that was to be immediately admitted to all the intimacies of the house; upon which these charming girls gave me all the marks of a welcome reception, and indeed of being perfectly pleased with my figure, that I could possibly expect from any of my own sex: but they had been effectually brought to sacrifice all jealousy, or competition of charms, to a common interest, and considered me a partner that was bringing no despicable stock of goods into the trade of the house. They gathered round me, viewed me on all sides; and as my admission into this joyous troop made a little holiday, the shew of work was laid aside; and Mrs. Cole giving me up, with special recommendation, to their caresses and entertainment, went about her ordinary business of the house. The sameness of our sex, age, profession, and views, soon creased as unreserved a freedom and intimacy as if we had been for years acquainted. They took and shewed me the house, their respective apartments, which were furnished with every article of convenience and luxury; and above all, a spacious drawing- room, where a select revelling band usually met, in general parties of pleasure; the girls supping with their sparks, and acting their wanton pranks with unbounded licentiousness; whilst a defiance of awe, modesty or jealousy were their standing rules, by which, according to the principles of their society, whatever pleasure was lost on the side of sentiment, was abundantly made up to the senses in the poignancy of variety, and the charms of ease and luxury. The authors and supporters of this secret institution would, in the height of their humour, style themselves the restorers of the golden age and its simplicity of pleasures, before their innocence became so unjustly branded with the names of guilt and shame. As soon then as the evening began, and the shew of a shop was shut, the academy opened; the mask of mock-modesty was completely taken off, and all the girls delivered over to their respective calls of pleasure or interest with their men: and none of that sex was promiscuously admitted, but only such as Mrs. Cole was previously satisfied with their character and discretion.

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  Another time I was roused by bird-song: I squinted at the lines of light around the shutters, and realised I had not seen the sun for a week. In a house kept uniformly warm by the labour of servants, and with a carriage to collect us and deposit us where we wished, even the seasons lost their meanings or gained new ones. I knew winter had arrived only when Diana’s walking-dresses changed from silk to corduroy, her cloaks from grenadine to sable; and when my own closet rail sagged with astrakhan, and camel’s-hair, and tweed. But there was one anniversary from the old order of things that, even in the enchanted atmosphere of Felicity Place, surrounded by so much narcotic luxury, I could not quite forget. One day, when I had been Diana’s lover for a little less than a year, I was woken by the rustle of news-sheet. My mistress was beside me with the morning paper, and I opened my eyes upon a headline. Home Rule Bill, it said; Irish to Demonstrate June 3rd. I gave a cry. It was not the words which arrested me - they meant nothing to me. The date, however, was as familiar as my own name. June the third was my birthday; in a week I should be twenty-three. ‘Twenty-three!’ said Diana when I told her, in a kind of delight. ‘What a really glorious age that is! With your youth still hot upon you, like a lover in a pant; and time with his face around the curtain, peeping on.’ She could talk like this, even first thing in the morning; I only yawned. But then she said that we must celebrate - and at that, I looked livelier. ‘What shall we do,’ she said, ‘that we haven’t done before? Where shall I take you ... ?’ Where she hit upon, in the end, was the Opera. The idea sounded a terrible one to me, though I did not like to show it - I had not yet grown sulky with her, as I was later to do. And I was still too much of a child to be anything other than enchanted with my own birthday, when it finally arrived; and of course, there were presents - and presents never lost their charm. I was given them at breakfast, in two gold parcels. The first, was large, and held a cloak - a proper opera-going cloak, it was, and very grand; but then, I had expected that, and hardly considered it a gift at all. The second parcel, however, proved more marvellous. It was small and light: I knew at once it must be some piece of jewellery - perhaps, a pair of links; or a stud for my cravats; or a ring. Dickie wore a ring on the smallest finger of her left hand, and I had often admired it - yes, I was sure it must be a ring, like Dickie’s. But it was not a ring.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Dos horas después, el cielo está oscuro y estoy felizmente relajada. Ahora no puedo pensar, incluso si lo intentara. Las facturas de Cole y las mías están en mi habitación, la matrícula con la que me voy a endeudar aún más en cuanto a mis préstamos estudiantiles que pagar, se vence en un par de meses y el empujón que siento en mi espalda sabiendo que puedo hacer más dinero si solo tuviera las agallas... Todo está a kilómetros de distancia en este momento. He estado sonriendo sin parar durante toda la tarde. —Eso fue divertido —le digo a Pike, ambos dando la vuelta a la casa hacia el jardín trasero. Estamos embarrados de lodo y no queremos dejar huellas por toda la sala, así que le sugerí limpiarnos un poquito primero con la manguera en el jardín trasero. Alzando la mirada hacia Pike, veo lodo en su cuello y sus ojos apagados, fuera de foco, como si estuviera perdido en sus pensamientos. Una pequeña sonrisa cuelga de sus labios. —¿Qué? —le pregunto.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Siempre fue una decepción que me quedara en este pueblo y trabajara en algo que pensaban que requería más fuerza que cerebro. Sin embargo, cuando fundé Lawson Construction, mi propio negocio, y construí mi propio hogar, siempre me miraban como si quisieran algo mejor, pero sabían que era inútil decir algo. Se habían dado por vencidos. No es que odiaran lo que hice, o que no estuvieran contentos con el hombre en el que me he convertido. Lloraron mis oportunidades perdidas y todavía estaban preocupados por la felicidad de su hijo. Lo que no se dieron cuenta, sin embargo, es que ahora tengo mi propio hijo y su felicidad es lo primero. Y realmente amo muchas cosas sobre lo que hago. Consigo horas de aire fresco todos los días, el sol, el ejercicio… Es una buena vida. Duermo bien por la noche. Es agradable ver que otra persona lo disfrute como yo. —Mi día está arruinado ahora —dice Jordan—. Nada sobrepasará eso. —¿Sobrepasar qué? —respondo—. ¿Mojarte bajo la lluvia? —Y jugar en el barro. Sonrío y sacudo la cabeza cuando entro en mi calzada. —Eso no es jugar en el barro. Se vuelve hacia mí. —Oh, ¿te refieres a enlodarse? ¿Por eso tu camioneta se ve tan desagradable? Me burlo y apago el auto, lanzándola una mirada. —Niña, si puedes decir de qué color es la pintura, entonces no estás usando tu camioneta correctamente. ¿Lo entiendes? Pone los ojos en blanco y abre la puerta del auto. Los dos bajamos y nos dirigimos al porche. Ahora que lo pienso, si no le importara mojarse y ensuciarse hoy, probablemente le encantaría enlodarse. No lo he hecho en mucho tiempo. Mi camioneta solo se ve desagradable porque nunca la lavo. Eso no es natural. —¿Alguna vez has llevado a Cole? —pregunta, subiendo los escalones. —Algunas veces mientras crecía, sí. Extiendo la mano antes que llegue a la puerta y la abra, manteniéndola abierta para que entre primero. Pero se da vuelta, mirándome antes de entrar. —Quizás puedas llevarnos a los dos la próxima vez que vayas —sugiere—. Mientras pueda conducir. No eres muy posesivo con tu camioneta, ¿verdad? —No. Una camioneta está hecha para ser usada. Adelante. Solo me pondré el cinturón de seguridad. Sonríe suavemente y me mira por un momento, algo que no puedo descifrar cruza su rostro. ¿Dije algo? La miro por un momento, notando cómo sus ojos se ven casi como una acuarela. Azul medianoche, pero cada vez más claro cuanto más se acercan a la pupila. Miro hacia otro lado, aclarando mi garganta. —¡Jordan! —grita Cole de repente desde el piso de arriba—. Nena, ¿estás en casa? ¡Ven acá! Me encuentro con su mirada otra vez, y se aleja, mostrándome una sonrisa de disculpa. —Tengo que ir a prepararme para el trabajo. Gracias por permitirme ayudar hoy. Asiento, pero me quedo en la puerta, viéndola cruzar la sala de estar y desaparecer por las escaleras. Un sentimiento extraño me invade mientras la miro.

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

  As he said this I remembered how I hid in the closet of a young man when I was only thirteen, for the same reason. He was twenty-five and he treated me like a little girl. I was in love with him. Sitting next to him in a car in which he took all of us for long rides, I was ecstatic just feeling his leg alongside mine. At night I would get into bed and, after turning out the light, take out a can of condensed milk in which I had punctured a little hole. I would sit in the dark sucking at the sweet milk with a voluptuous feeling all over my body that I could not explain. I thought then that being in love and sucking at the sweet milk were related. Much later I remembered this when I tasted sperm for the first time. Mollie remembered that at the same age she liked to eat ginger while she smelled camphor balls. The ginger made her body feel warm and languid and the camphor balls made her a little dizzy. She would get herself in a sort of drugged state this way, lying there for hours.

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  Even so, it was marvellous to be clean again, and when I had combed my hair and tended my face (I rubbed a bit of vinegar into the bruise, and then a bit of flour); when I had thumped the filth from my skirts and pressed them flat and put them on again, I felt fit and warm and quite unreasonably gay. I walked back into the parlour - it was a matter of some ten steps or so - stood for a second there, then returned to the kitchen. It was, I thought, a very pleasant house; as I had already begun to notice, however, it was not a very clean one. The rugs, I saw, all badly wanted beating. The skirting-boards were scuffed and streaked with mud. Every shelf and picture was as dusty as the sooty mantelpiece. If this was my house, I thought, I would keep it smart as a new pin. Then I had a rather wonderful idea. I ran back into the parlour and looked at the clock. Less than an hour had passed since Florence’s departure, and neither she nor Ralph, I guessed, would be home much before five. That gave me about eight whole hours - slightly less, I supposed, if I wanted to be sure of finding myself a room in some lodging-house or hostel while it was still light. How much cleaning could you do in eight hours? I had no idea: it was generally Alice who had helped Mother out at home; I had hardly cleaned a thing before in my life; lately I had had servants to do my cleaning for me. But I felt inspired, now, to tidy this house - this house where I had been, albeit briefly, so content. It would be a kind of parting gift, I thought, for Ralph and Florence. I would be like a girl in a fairy story, sweeping out the dwarves’ cottage, or the robbers’ cave, while the dwarves or the robbers were at work.

• From City of Night (1963)

  Now, in the park—and it is mid-afternoon—there are the familiar sights of mangled American outcasts of every breed. Under the drooping palmtrees, old men and women sit on benches; and outside the enclosed lawn, along the outer ledges, the vagrants of all ages—the younger ones out to score and the older ones out merely to fill the necessary space of time required of that day to qualify them as being “alive”—sit singly or in groups, always waiting: the masklike faces of people expecting anything or nothing.... “When I got this gig, parking cars,” Chuck was going on, “I figured theres got to be that malehouse somewhere in Hollywood I heard so much about, an someone’ll spot me, sign me up for it.” This was a familiar thing with him—said now half-jokingly. “This score, man, he says: ‘Chuck, you jes work in my parkin lot an someone’s bound to show that knows where it is an you can go there an apply.’ But, hell, nothin happened, An I Got Tired.” He shrugs his shoulders. His hat was pushed away from his face, turned toward the sun. “Gettin a tan,” he explains, yawning lazily, very long, “an—uh—it makes me—unhhh—real—sleepy.” Directly behind us, the howling voice of the Negro woman who preaches there every day rises in a wail as she goes through a religious Revelation. She clutches her throat, gasping out choked obsessed mutterings; eyes shut deliriously, one hand dangling intimately between her slightly spread arched legs—like a burlesque queen. “Comin, Lawd!” she announces triumphantly. She gasped now as if shes seen Him, lurking among the California palmtrees. She greets Him with bumping hips. “Comin, Lawdee!” and her hands are stretched out in supplication or welcome. And Chuck said happily: “Yippeee! Man-oh-man! She has made it!—I swear she has made it!” Then he yells to her: “Grab Him, lady! You jes grab-im while you got-im—an don let go!” Now he turns to face me. He yawns again. “The best way to get there,” he mused now, “is to take it slow.” “Get where?” He shrugged. “Wherever.... I mean, wherever you wanna go. Like for her—” indicating the Negro woman “—her, see, she wants to make it to Heaven.... Or, I mean, like, if you wanna make it to New York or Denver—... Or Nowhere, like me....” And there it was. There was what had intrigued me about Chuck from the very beginning: His easy, happy acceptance of Nothingness. It wasnt resignation—it was acceptance. I look at him as he smiles into the bright glare of the sun.... In the midst of all the turbulence, he was always enviably cool—almost as if some compassionate angel had whispered a secret to him (which must have been something like: “Rest”), and based on that secret, he seemed to live his life untouched by turmoil—yet the turmoil surrounded him constantly.

• From Summer Sisters (1998)

  As for what happened between the girls, Vix doesn’t want to talk about it. And she doesn’t believe in butting in. Mess around with the money folks, wind up getting burned . Vix will learn the hard way, same as she did. Anyway, Vix has a boyfriend. Nice guy. She knows the family. Spent a couple of nights with one of the uncles a few years back. What the hell … she’s single. 22THE HOMEPORT had a big, noisy dining room, where food was served family style. It was popular with tourists and locals alike, more for its location overlooking the harbor, the best place to view spectacular Menemsha sunsets, than for its food. It was impossible to get a reservation this time of year unless you called at least a week in advance. The menu was simple and never changed. Swordfish and lobster were the two most popular dinners. They came with baked potatoes, corn on the cob, and cole slaw. For dessert it was pie and ice cream. The blueberries in the pie were canned, not fresh. If anyone asked, Vix was supposed to tell them the truth. But no one ever asked. Because all the up island towns were dry, there was no bar. You could BYOB if you wanted beer or wine with your meal, but Vix wasn’t permitted to open it because she was under age. Tips ran the gamut from generous to pathetic. She always tried to guess at the beginning of a meal how much her table would leave, but more than half the time she was wrong. One night she was sure she saw Barbra Streisand, another, Mary Steen burgen. But neither sat at Vix’s tables. She did get to wait on a group from Saturday Night Live . They were loud and messy, dropping lobster shells on the floor, but they left her two twenties to make up for it. The staff got to eat free. At first it seemed like a great deal but after the first week she couldn’t look at another piece of swordfish, let alone eat it. She lived on corn, baked potatoes, cole slaw, and Trisha’s muffins. The manager considered her a hard worker but encouraged her to become more of a team player. She was always polite, always efficient, but she didn’t hang out with the other servers and they resented her. When one of the girls finally asked where Vix headed every night after work, Vix told her about Bru. After that the others were more accepting. Everybody loves a lover. Probably no one at the Homeport would believe she was still a virgin … technically, anyway. But it was true. The first time they tried it hadn’t really worked. He’d never been with a virgin, Bru told her. Maybe it was always like this but he was afraid if he pushed too hard he’d hurt her. And he didn’t want to hurt her. Hurt her?

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  ―le digo cuando volvemos al primer piso―. Lugares donde las personas van a pasar sus vidas y ganar sus sustentos. ―En realidad nunca lo pensé así. ―Se detiene en la parte trasera del edificio, mirando los acres de espacio vacíos más allá―. También es mi sustento de vida, supongo. Miro hacia afuera y noto el espacio al aire libre conectado a la parte trasera del edificio. Es grande, y puedo ya ver una fuente de mármol colocada al azar para una configuración posterior. ―¿Esto será un jardín? ―pregunto, notando que no hay techo―. Es una buena idea. ¿Construirás esto, también? ―Oh, no ―responde―. Una compañía de paisajismo vendrá cuando el edificio esté casi completo y se ocupará de plantar el césped, árboles, e instalar la estética. Justo lo mío. Me encanta el antes y el después, ver la transformación de un espacio al aire libre. ―Te avisaré cuando comiencen ―dice como si leyera mi mente―. Puedes venir de vez en cuando para ver el proceso. Sonrío. ―Gracias. En realidad, me gustaría eso. Además de mis profesores, nadie más sabe que en verdad disfruto ese tipo de cosas. Nuestros ojos se encuentran, y me doy cuenta que hay algo que me estoy perdiendo. No tengo mucho en común con las otras personas en mi vida, ¿no es así? Nos encerramos el uno en el otro pero solo por un momento. Un trabajador pasa, cargando leña por encima de su hombro, y Pike de repente se endereza, rompiendo el contacto conmigo y saludándolo. ―Bueno, debería… ―Muevo mi pulgar detrás de mí―. Irme, supongo. ―Sí ―responde―. También yo. Retrocedo. ―Te veo en casa. Tendré la cena lista a las cinco. Solo asiente y regresa a su trabajo. Casa. ¿No la casa? No es mi hogar, después de todo. Camino de regreso al auto y subo, sintiéndome peor que cuando llegué. ¿La cena a las cinco? Cole no sale hasta las seis. ¿De repente solo olvidé que existía? Envuelvo una toalla alrededor de mi cuerpo y recojo mi ropa sucia, el baño todavía está lleno de vapor. Abriendo la puerta, me asomo al pasillo y me aseguro que está despejado, y corro hacia mi habitación, cerrando mi puerta tras de mí. Sigo olvidando llevar ropa limpia conmigo, así puedo vestirme justo después de ducharme. Aún estoy acostumbrada a tener mi propio lugar y no me preocupaba si cruzaba el pasillo en toalla. Al menos estoy recordando ponerme un short de pijama si bajo por agua a mitad de la noche. Dudo que no muriera de vergüenza si el papá de Cole me viera en ropa interior y camiseta. Tomando mi cepillo, peino mi cabello húmedo y escojo algo para dormir. Veo un resplandor desde afuera y me acerco a las persianas, mirando a través de una grieta. Está oscuro afuera —son más de las nueve—, pero Pike sigue allí, en la entrada, trabajando en mi VW.