Contentment

Passages

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

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

  After a few minutes he turns up a dirt road and parks in front of a small weathered farmhouse. I get out of my car and hear a cacophony of honking noises – ducks! He assures me they’ll settle down but I don’t care, I’m thoroughly charmed by the whole scene. When he opens the screen door after crossing a ramshackle porch filled with rubber boots and gardening tools, two cats and a chocolate Labrador come running to greet us. He looks down at my feet and asks if I have a more practical pair of shoes in my car to take the dog for a walk. I do not, so he reaches for my hand to guide me as we walk up a damp grassy path behind the dog. It is serene under the inky black sky, but impossible to see more than a foot ahead and we are walking with purpose to keep up with the dog, wet grass tickling my feet while my delicate sandals rebel against the pastoral conditions. Terrified that even with him protectively clutching my hand I am merely steps away from wiping out, I’m doing everything I can to simultaneously secure my footing, casually swat away mosquitoes and reassure him this is a lovely walk and of course I am loving every second of my time outdoors! My relief when we are back inside and I can kick off my ridiculous heels is so great that one might have thought I was returning from a ten-mile hike in the depths of the jungle. Settling into a cane- backed rocking chair to wait while he feeds his cats, I take in the living room, which, like the house, is unpretentious and charming, simply furnished with a stack of astronomy magazines and copies of The New York Review of Books on the coffee table. Soon he is back, wasting no words while he sinks down to his knees next to the rocking chair, kissing me gently and then with increasing urgency. He asks if I want to go upstairs and then we are on the rickety staircase with him holding out a hand behind him for me to hold as we head to his bedroom.

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

  Mostly what I like about them is that men like them and it seems so easy to please them. Maybe, I think with growing concern, I don’t love giving them because I’m not good at it. When I am dressed and ready to leave, he asks when he can see me again. I suggest a weekday if that’s ever an option for him, realizing that I want to reserve my limited weekend time for #6, and he asks about the coming week. Is it a bad sign that I don’t want to be wanted this badly by him, that I put him off by telling him that scheduling is a challenge for me and I will have to get back to him? He dons a scruffy parka and old sneakers to walk me to the subway. On the walk, he holds my hand and grins at me. I like him – he’s kind, educated, isn’t into playing games – but holding hands feels like too much familiarity too soon. CHAPTER 32 Hair Removal 101 I am not yet accustomed to having open pockets of weekend time, having filled my Saturdays and Sundays for the past eighteen years with swimming lessons, birthday parties, and trips to the zoo. Now that I can do whatever I want without having to entice Michael or the kids, it seems as if I am magnetically drawn to activities that make me pine for my family. I make a mental list of neighborhoods I’ve wanted to explore and restaurants I’ve wanted to try so that the free time feels like a gift instead of a reminder of all that is being stolen from me. “You know what I’ve never done before and have always wanted to do?” I say to #6 as we meander through a Thai cultural festival in Union Square on Saturday afternoon. It’s a beautiful late fall day, so the square is teeming with people. “I know it’s not terribly exciting, but I’ve always wanted to ride the tram over the East River to Roosevelt Island and have never made the time to do it. Any interest?” I ask. “Sure, let’s go check that off your bucket list,” he says, smiling. Time is ours to fill, a notion that is both liberating and intimidating. We take the subway to midtown and then walk a few blocks east to the tram. I am delighted when it rises high over the river. We press ourselves against the glass to look down as he points out sites and orients me. It takes only a few minutes to get there, and when we disembark, I ask if we can explore, having never been on this small island so close to our own.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  ‘For the present day, dear friends, my reign is complete except for giving you another queen, who shall decide for herself how her time and ours should be spent in seemly pleasures on the morrow. And albeit some little time still appears to be left until nightfall, I believe this to be the most suitable hour at which to begin all the days that ensue, since preparations can thus be made for whatever the new queen considers appropriate with regard to the following day. For we are unlikely to make proper provision for the future unless some thought is devoted beforehand to the matter. And therefore, with due reverence to the One who gives life to all things, and with an eye to our common good, I decree that on this coming day the queen who will govern our realm shall be Filomena, a young lady of excellent judgement.’ Having spoken these words, she rose to her feet and removed her laurel garland, which she reverently placed upon Filomena; after which, first she herself, then all the other maidens, and the young men too, hailed Filomena as their queen and pledged themselves with good grace to her sovereignty. Filomena blushed a little for modesty on finding that she had been crowned as their queen. But recalling the words so recently uttered by Pampinea, and not wishing to appear obtuse, she plucked up courage, and first of all she confirmed the appointments made by Pampinea, and gave instructions as to what should be done for the following morning, as well as for supper that evening, due account being taken of the place in which they were staying. Then she began to address the company as follows: ‘Dearest companions, albeit Pampinea, more out of kindness of heart than for any merit of my own, has made me your queen, I do not intend, in shaping the manner in which we should comport ourselves, merely to follow my personal judgement, but rather to blend my judgement with yours. In order that you may know what I have in mind, and thus be at liberty to suggest additions or curtailments to my programme, I propose to expound it to you briefly. Unless I am mistaken, I would say that the formalities observed today by Pampinea were both laudable and pleasing. And so, until such time as we should find them wearisome, whether through constant repetition or for some other reason, I consider they ought to remain unaltered.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  ‘Dear sister, I do hereby pronounce you sovereign of our tiny nation.’ And then she returned to her place. Neifile blushed a little on receiving this honour, so that her face was like the rose that blooms at dawn in early summer, whilst her eyes, which she had lowered slightly, glittered and shone like the morning star. There followed a round of respectful applause, in token of the joy and goodwill of her companions, and when the clapping had subsided and she had recovered her composure, she seated herself in a slightly more elevated position, and said to them: ‘I have no wish to depart from the excellent ways of my predecessors, of whose government you have shown your approval by your obedience. But since I really am your queen, I shall acquaint you briefly with my own proposals, and if they meet with your consent we shall carry them into effect. ‘As you know, tomorrow is Friday and the next day is Saturday,1 both of which, because of the food we normally eat on those two days, are generally thought of as being rather tedious. Moreover, Friday is worthy of special reverence because that was the day of the Passion of Our Lord, who died that we might live, and I would therefore regard it as perfectly right and proper that we should all do honour to God by devoting that day to prayer rather than storytelling. As for Saturday, it is customary on that day for the ladies to wash their hair and rinse away the dust and grime that may have settled on their persons in the course of their week’s endeavours. Besides, in deference to the Virgin Mother of the Son of God, they are wont to fast on Saturdays, and to refrain from all activities for the rest of the day, as a mark of respect for the approaching sabbath. Since, therefore, it would be impossible on a Saturday to profit to the full from the routine upon which we have embarked, I think we would be well advised to abstain from telling stories on that day also. ‘It will then be four days since we came to stay here, and in order to avoid being joined by others,2 I think it advisable for us to move elsewhere. I have already thought of a place for us to go, and made the necessary arrangements.

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

  I love the physicality of having sex, the way my body tingles and shivers, but I also love how it makes me feel grounded afterwards, how the sharing of intense energy connects me with whomever I happen to be having sex – even if the connection ends the minute we put our clothes back on. Tonight I will get to hold onto that feeling all night since I am sleeping here, so I rally and then drift off to sleep to the whirring of the fan and beyond it the rush of the river. The scene would be pretty close to perfect if not for the cats who jump on the bed throughout the night with the regularity of a cuckoo clock, climbing on top of me to let me know that my presence is not appreciated. In the morning, we rise at dawn, both exhausted after a fitful night. I shower while he shaves in front of the bathroom mirror and we hurriedly dress and say goodbye, as he heads off to a meeting and I go in search of coffee that will be strong enough to wake me up. * I have always thought that my birthday, which falls over Labor Day weekend, is perfectly placed on the calendar, that I am lucky to celebrate another year of my life in synchronicity with summer getting one last hurrah. Usually we are away on our annual summer vacation in Cape Cod and I wake up to handmade cards and gifts from Michael and the kids: rocks and seashells that have been painted, small gifts wrapped in aluminum foil, breakfasts in bed that the kids eat themselves while I sip from a mug of coffee. Michael would let me sleep late and in the afternoon would corral the kids so that I could have an hour or two to read on the beach by myself, and later, as the sun set, we would eat lobsters and drink cheap white wine at a no-frills clam shack. Summer got a proper send-off while I got another year added to my age, awash in the love of the family I had created.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Having said this, he laid his chest on the edge of the tomb and swivelled round, thrusting his legs inside preparatory to descending, and with only his head sticking out. When Andreuccio saw this, he stood up and grasped the priest by one of his legs, giving the priest the impression that he was about to be dragged down into the tomb. The priest no sooner felt this happening than he let out an ear-splitting yell and hurled himself bodily out of the tomb. The rest of the gang were terrified by this turn of events, and, leaving the tomb open, they all started running away as though they were being pursued by ten thousand devils. When Andreuccio perceived what had happened, he was contented beyond his wildest hopes, and, clambering hastily out, he left the cathedral by the way he had come. By now it was almost daybreak, and as he was wandering aimlessly along with the ring on his finger, he eventually came to the waterfront. Shortly thereafter he stumbled across his inn, where he found that his companions and the innkeeper had been up all night, wondering what on earth had become of him. After telling them what had happened, he was urged by the innkeeper to leave Naples at once. He promptly followed the innkeeper’s advice, and returned to Perugia, having invested, in a ring, the money with which he had set out to purchase horses. SIXTH STORYMadonna Beritola, having lost her two sons, is found on an island with two roebucks and taken to Lunigiana, where one of her sons, having entered the service of her lord and master, makes love to the daughter of the house and is thrown into prison. After the Sicilian rebellion against King Charles, the son is recognized by his mother, he marries his master’s daughter, he is reunited with his brother, and they are all restored to positions of great honour. The whole company, ladies and young men alike, rocked with laughter over Fiammetta’s account of Andreuccio’s misfortunes, and then Emilia, on seeing that the story was finished and receiving a signal from the queen, began as follows: The erratic course pursued by Fortune frequently leads to pain and irritation. But since our mental faculties, which are easily lulled to sleep by her blandishments, are aroused as often as a subject is openly discussed, I consider that nobody, whether he be happy or miserable, should ever object to hearing an account of her eccentricities, in that the first man will be placed on his guard and the second will receive some consolation. Accordingly, I propose to tell you a story, no less true than touching, on this same topic upon which such splendid things have already been said. And whilst my tale has a happy ending, the suffering contained therein was so intense and protracted, that I can scarcely believe it was ever entirely assuaged by the happiness that ensued.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  I’ve heard that she fences quite as finely as she writes,’ he insisted. And somehow Stephen felt touched, Brockett was trying to show off her talents. Presently she offered him a lift in the car, but he shook his head: ‘No, thank you, dear one, I’m staying.’ So she wished them good-bye; but as she left them she heard Brockett murmuring to Valérie Seymour, and she felt pretty sure that she caught her own name. 6 ‘Well, what did you think of Miss Seymour?’ inquired Puddle, when Stephen got back about twenty minutes later. Stephen hesitated: ‘I’m not perfectly certain. She was very friendly, but I couldn’t help feeling that she liked me because she thought me—oh, well, because she thought me what I am, Puddle. But I may have been wrong—she was awfully friendly. Brockett was at his very worst though, poor devil! His environment seemed to go to his head.’ She sank down wearily on to a chair: ‘Oh, Puddle, Puddle, it’s a hell of a business.’ Puddle nodded. Then Stephen said rather abruptly: ‘All the same, we’re going to live here in Paris. We’re going to look at a house to-morrow, an old house with a garden in the Rue Jacob.’ For a moment Puddle hesitated, then she said: ‘There’s only one thing against it. Do you think you’ll ever be happy in a city? You’re so fond of the life that belongs to the country.’ Stephen shook her head: ‘That’s all past now, my dear; there’s no country for me away from Morton. But in Paris I might make some sort of a home, I could work here—and then of course there are people. . . .’ Something started to hammer in Puddle’s brain: ‘Like to like! Like to like! Like to like!’ it hammered. CHAPTER 32 1 S tephen bought the house in the Rue Jacob, because as she walked through the dim, grey archway that led from the street to the cobbled courtyard, and saw the deserted house standing before her, she knew at once that there she would live. This will happen sometimes, we instinctively feel in sympathy with certain dwellings. The courtyard was sunny and surrounded by walls. On the right of this courtyard some iron gates led into the spacious, untidy garden, and woefully neglected though this garden had been, the trees that it still possessed were fine ones. A marble fountain long since choked with weeds, stood in the centre of what had been a lawn. In the farthest corner of the garden some hand had erected a semi-circular temple, but that had been a long time ago, and now the temple was all but ruined.

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

  This is a question that I am frequently asked, particularly by other women, and I understand but I also resent it. Saying it was sudden is clearly a euphemism for admitting that one of us had an affair, which instantly satisfies everyone who wants a reasonable explanation as to how a 27-year relationship met a sudden demise. There are equal parts curiosity and self-preservation in the question, akin to asking someone with cancer if they smoked. What’s the difference, I always want to ask. Whether or not you can trace the origin of my diseased marriage is irrelevant, because either way now I’m here. Would it make a difference if I had had more time to prepare for its end, or is it intolerable to not have someone or something to blame? He excuses himself to use the restroom, possibly fleeing after having witnessed an uncomfortable series of emotions ranging from sadness to anger cross my face in a matter of seconds. When he returns, he leans forward over the table toward me, sighs deeply, puts a hand over mine and says, “Listen, I’ve been in your shoes. It gets easier over time, but the shock has to wear off. You seem like a really nice person and I’m sure you didn’t deserve whatever it is that happened to you.” I nod my head but don’t say anything. A quick onset of tears has become a frequent occurrence in my life as of late, but I refuse to let them emerge on a first date. My awkward pause is saved by two older men who get up from the table next to ours and nod to us as they prepare to leave. “Hey,” #4 smiles at them, his eyes twinkling mischievously. “This is our first date. How are we doing?” “Wow, first date huh? I never would have known. I’d say the date is going very well,” one of the men says. “But if anything takes a turn, give me her number?” We laugh and I am at ease again, smiling as I watch the men walk out the door, holding it gallantly for an incoming couple. My smile is short-lived; unbelievably, that incoming couple is my mom and my dad. I freeze in alarm and after a moment slink down into my seat. “Oh my God,” I whisper. “My parents just walked in.” “Oh great, let’s say hi,” he says in a loud voice, twisting his body to see them. “No!” I practically shriek. “Please turn around immediately. Don’t draw attention to us! They don’t know that I’m dating yet.” He is laughing but I break into a cold sweat like I’m a teenager on the couch with my boyfriend, having just been busted by my parents. “OK, listen, they’re going to the bakery, probably to buy bread and then leave. Just give me a little cover here, I’m going to block myself with your body so they can’t see me.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Federigo had come with an empty stomach, for he had been expecting to sup with his mistress. But having clearly grasped the meaning of the words of the prayer, he made his way into the garden, where at the foot of the large peach-tree he found the two capons and the wine and the eggs, which he took back with him to his house, there to make a splendid and leisurely meal of it all. And on many a later occasion, when he was with his mistress, they had a good laugh together over this incantation of hers. It is true that some people maintain that the lady had in fact turned the skull of the ass towards Fiesole, and that a farmhand, passing through the vineyard, had poked his stick inside it and given it a good twirl, so that it ended up facing towards Florence, hence causing Federigo to think that she wanted him to come. According to this second account,12 the words of the lady’s prayer went like this: ‘Werewolf, werewolf, leave us be; the ass’s head was turned, but not by me; I curse the one who did it, and I think you will agree; for I’m here with my dear Gianni, as anyone can see.’ And so Federigo beat a hasty retreat, and lost his supper that evening as well as his lodging. However, there is a neighbour of mine, a very old woman, who tells me that both accounts are correct if there is any truth in a story which she was told when she was still a child, and that the second version refers, not to Gianni Lotteringhi, but to a man from Porta San Piero called Gianni di Nello, who was just as great a dunderhead as Gianni Lotteringhi. I therefore leave it to you, dear ladies, to choose the version you prefer, or perhaps you would like to accept both, for as you have heard, they are extremely effective in situations like the one I have described. Commit them to memory, then, for they may well stand you in good stead in times to come. SECOND STORYPeronella hides her lover in a tub when her husband returns home unexpectedly. Her husband has sold the tub, but she tells him that she herself has already sold it to a man who is inspecting it from the inside to see whether it is sound. Leaping forth from the tub, the man gets the husband to scrape it out and carry it back to his house for him. Emilia’s story was received with gales of laughter, and everyone agreed that the prayer was indeed a fine and godly one. When the tale was finished, the king ordered Filostrato to follow, and so he began:

• From The Decameron (1353)

  This, then, was the place to which the young ladies came; and after they had gazed all around and extolled its marvellous beauty, seeing the limpid pool shimmering there before them they made up their minds, since it was very hot and they were in no danger of being observed, to go for a swim. And having ordered their maid to go back and keep watch along the path by which they had entered the valley, and bring them warning if anyone should come, all seven of them undressed and took to the water, which concealed their chaste white bodies no better than a thin sheet of glass would conceal a pink rose. And when they were in the water, which remained as crystal-clear as before, they began as best they could to swim hither and thither in pursuit of the fishes, which had nowhere to hide, and tried to seize hold of them with their hands. In this sport they persisted for a while, and after they had caught some of the fish, they emerged from the pool and put on their clothes again. And being unable to bestow higher praise upon the place than that which they had already accorded to it, feeling that it was time to make their way back again, they set forth at a gentle pace, talking all the while of its beauty. It was as yet quite early when they arrived at the palace, where they found the young men still playing dice in the place where they had left them, and Pampinea greeted them with a laugh, saying: ‘We have stolen a march upon you today.’ ‘What?’ said Dioneo. ‘Do you mean to say you have begun to do these things even before you talk about them?’ ‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ said Pampinea. And she gave him a lengthy description of the place from which they had come, telling him how far away it was, and what they had been doing there. On hearing her account of the place’s beauty, the king was anxious to see it for himself, and he straightway ordered supper to be served. This they all proceeded to eat with a great deal of relish, and when it was over, the three young men and their servants deserted the ladies and made their way to the Valley. None of them had been there before, and all things considered, they concluded admiringly that it was one of the loveliest sights in the world. And when they had bathed and dressed, since the hour was very late they went straight back home, where they found the ladies dancing a carole3 to an air being sung by Fiammetta. They joined them in the dance, and when it was finished, having taken up the subject of the Valley of the Ladies, they talked at length in praise of its beauty.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Since nearly everyone was convinced that he really had been brought back from the dead, Ferondo’s return and his tall stories immeasurably enhanced the Abbot’s reputation for saintliness. And for his own part, because of the countless hidings he had received on account of his jealousy, Ferondo stopped being jealous and became a reformed character, so that the expectations held out to the lady by the Abbot were fulfilled to the letter. Of this she was very glad, and thereafter she lived no less chastely with her husband than she had in the past, except that, whenever the occasion arose, she gladly renewed her intimacy with the Abbot, who had ministered to her greatest needs with such unfailing skill and diligence. NINTH STORYGilette of Narbonne,1 having cured the King of France of a fistula,2 asks him for the hand of Bertrand of Roussillon in marriage. Bertrand marries her against his will, then goes off in high dudgeon to Florence, where he pays court to a young woman whom Guette impersonates, sleeping with him and presenting him with two children. In this way, he finally comes to love her and acknowledge her as his wife. When Lauretta’s tale had ended, the queen, not wishing to revoke Dioneo’s privilege, and realizing that she herself was the only person left to speak, began without waiting to be urged. And with all her considerable charm she addressed her companions as follows: How is anyone to tell a better story than the one we have just heard from Lauretta? It was certainly fortunate for us that hers was not the first, for otherwise we would have derived little pleasure from the ones that followed, which is what I fear will happen with the last two stories of today. However, for what it is worth, I am going to tell you a story on the topic we proposed. *

• From The Decameron (1353)

  ‘Hold your tongue now, woman, and leave everything to me. Be so good as to see that we’re supplied with something to eat. This young man looks as though he’s had no more supper this evening than I have.’ ‘Of course he hasn’t had any supper,’ said his wife. ‘We were no sooner seated at table than you had to come knocking at the door.’ ‘Run along, then,’ said Pietro, ‘and get us some supper, after which I’ll arrange matters so that you won’t have any further cause for complaint.’ On perceiving that her husband was so contented, the wife sprang to her feet and quickly relaid the table. And when the supper she had prepared was brought in, she and the youth and her degenerate husband made a merry meal of it together. How exactly Pietro arranged matters, after supper, to the mutual satisfaction of all three parties, I no longer remember. But I do know that the young man was found next morning wandering about the piazza, not exactly certain with which of the pair he had spent the greater part of the night, the wife or the husband. So my advice to you, dear ladies, is this, that you should always give back as much as you receive; and if you can’t do it at once, bear it in mind till you can, so that what you lose on the swings, you gain on the roundabouts. * * * Dioneo’s story was thus concluded, and if the ladies’ laughter was restrained, this was more out of modesty than because it had failed to amuse them. But now the queen, perceiving that her sovereignty had come to an end, rose to her feet; and transferring the laurel crown from her own head to that of Elissa, she said to her: ‘Madam, it is now for you to command us.’ Elissa, having accepted the honour, proceeded as before, first of all arranging with the steward about what was to be done during her term of office, and then, to the general satisfaction of the company, she addressed them as follows: ‘Already we have heard many times how various people, with some clever remark or ready retort, or some quick piece of thinking, have been able, by striking at the right moment, to draw the teeth of their antagonists or avert impending dangers. This being so splendid a topic, and one which may also be useful, I desire that with God’s help our discussion on the morrow should confine itself to the following: those who, on being provoked by some verbal pleasantry, have returned like for like, or who, by a prompt retort or shrewd manoeuvre, have avoided danger, discomfiture or ridicule.’ This proposal was warmly approved by one and all, and so the queen, having risen to her feet, dismissed the whole company till suppertime.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  He spoke even his broken English with the soft, rather sing-song drawl of the local peasants. ‘But aren’t they our flowers?’ inquired Mary, surprised. Ramon shook his head: ‘Yours to see, yours to touch, but not yours to take, only mine to take—I sell them as part of my little payment. But to you I sell very cheap, Señorita, because you resemble the santa noche that makes our gardens smell sweet at night. I will show you our beautiful santa noche.’ He was thin as a lath and as brown as a chestnut, and his shirt was quite incredibly dirty; but when he walked he moved like a king on his rough bare feet with their broken toe-nails. ‘This evening I make you a present of my flowers; I bring you a very big bunch of tabachero,’ he remarked. ‘Oh, you mustn’t do that,’ protested Mary, getting out her purse. But Ramon looked offended: ‘I have said it. I give you the tabachero.’ 3 Their dinner consisted of a local fish fried in oil—the fish had a very strange figure, and the oil, Stephen thought, tasted slightly rancid; there was also a small though muscular chicken. But Concha had provided large baskets of fruit; loquats still warm from the tree that bred them, the full flavoured little indigenous bananas, oranges sweet as though dripping honey, custard apples and guavas had Concha provided, together with a bottle of the soft yellow wine so dearly beloved of the island Spaniards. Outside in the garden there was luminous darkness. The night had a quality of glory about it, the blue glory peculiar to Africa and seen seldom or never in our more placid climate. A warm breeze stirred the eucalyptus trees and their crude, harsh smell was persistently mingled with the thick scents of heliotrope and datura, with the sweet but melancholy scent of jasmine, with the faint, unmistakable odour of cypress. Stephen lit a cigarette: ‘Shall we go out, Mary?’ They stood for a minute looking up at the stars, so much larger and brighter than stars seen in England. From a pond on the farther side of the villa, came the queer, hoarse chirping of innumerable frogs singing their prehistoric love songs. A star fell, shooting swiftly earthward through the darkness.

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

  He runs his fingers down my back and I press my ear against his heart as I listen to it slow down. We drift off to sleep for a few minutes until he whispers that he should get me home. I roll off him and head to the bathroom to clean up. When I emerge, I note that he has assembled the clothes that had been thrown with abandon in various parts of the apartment and neatly arranged them on his bed. He pulls on sweatpants while I put my jeans and flouncy top back on. “You don’t have to get dressed. I’m going to walk home, it’ll take me ten minutes,” I say. “No, chivalry is not dead, I’ll put you in a taxi,” he says. I shake my head and insist that I am fine to walk home on my own. He kisses me goodbye, asking me to text when I arrive home, which I do exactly ten minutes later. I also text Lauren to let her know I’m home. “How was it? Please tell me you’re back in action,” she writes. “Indeed I am. Sex was great. He’s very oral and very verbal and I’m not sure how I feel about either, but I do like him so we’ll see.” * Like clockwork, he starts to text me every night around 10 asking, “You awake?” and I write back, “Indeed I am” or “Why yes, how lovely to hear from you,” and within seconds he calls and we talk about our days and kids, articles we’ve read and what we cooked for dinner. He listens with exceedingly fine attention, following up on previous comments I’ve made or issues that have concerned me. On Wednesday nights, he casually asks what my plans are for the weekend and we book Saturday night dates. I love that he takes the game- playing and guessing out of dating. He makes it clear that he wants to talk to me and see me, so that I look forward to getting that daily “You awake?” text without having to worry whether or not it will come. If he hasn’t made a reservation for dinner in advance, he has come up with ideas and we ride the subway from borough to borough on Saturday nights, eating Greek food in Astoria, Russian food in Brighton Beach, and Malaysian food in Chinatown. We are both adventurous eaters who prefer an authentic ethnic meal at a casual dive to a formal, upscale restaurant – though sometimes he takes me to those too. One night he asks if he can cook for me and I arrive at his apartment to find the small table for two set with linen napkins, candles, even a crystal pitcher of water. I try to help in the kitchen but he says no, I should pour myself a glass of wine and keep him company while he cooks.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  [image file=image_rsrc82M.jpg] SECOND DAYHere begins the Second Day, wherein, under the rule of Filomena, the discussion turns upon those who after suffering a series of misfortunes are brought to a state of unexpected happiness. The sun, having already ushered in the new day, was casting its light into every corner, and the birds singing gaily among the green boughs were announcing its presence to the ear, when the seven ladies and the three young men rose with one accord from their slumbers. Entering the gardens, they went from one part to another, and amused themselves for a long time by wandering unhurriedly over the dew-flecked lawns and weaving pretty garlands of flowers. And as they had done on the previous day, so they did on this. Having breakfasted in the open air, they danced a little and then retired to rest. Rising in the afternoon at about the hour of nones, as their queen had requested, they came to the little green meadow, where they seated themselves in a circle around her. She, looking most shapely and attractive, sat there with her laurel crown on her head, gazing in turn at each of her companions, and eventually she requested Neifile to open the day’s proceedings by telling the first story. Whereupon, without awaiting further encouragement, Neifile cheerfully began in the following manner: FIRST STORYMartellino, having pretended to be paralysed, gives the impression that he has been cured by being placed on the body of Saint Arrigo.1 When his deception is discovered, he is beaten, arrested, and very nearly hanged: but in the end he saves his skin. It has often happened, dearest ladies, that a man who has attempted to hold people up to ridicule, especially in matters worthy of reverence, has merely found himself humiliated, sometimes suffering injury into the bargain. Hence, in deference to the queen’s wishes, and by way of introduction to our theme, I propose in this story of mine to tell you what happened to a fellow citizen of ours who, after running into serious trouble, escaped far more lightly than he had anticipated.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Not a woman of them all but felt vaguely regretful in spite of the infinite blessing of peace, for none could know what the future might hold of trivial days filled with trivial actions. Great wars will be followed by great discontents—the pruning knife has been laid to the tree, and the urge to grow throbs through its mutilated branches. 3 The house in the Rue Jacob was en fête in honour of Stephen’s arrival. Pierre had rigged up an imposing flagstaff, from which waved a brand new tricolour commandeered by Pauline from the neighbouring baker; flowers had been placed in the study vases, while Adèle had contrived to produce the word ‘welcome’ in immortelles, as the pièce de resistance, and had hung it above the doorway. Stephen shook hands with them all in turn, and she introduced Mary, who also shook hands. Then Adèle must start to gabble about Jean, who was quite safe although not a captain; and Pauline must interrupt her to tell of the neighbouring baker who had lost his four sons, and of one of her brothers who had lost his right leg—her face very dour and her voice very cheerful, as was always the way when she told of misfortunes. And presently she must also deplore the long straight scar upon Stephen’s cheek: ‘Oh, la pauvre! Pour une dame c’est un vrai désastre!’ But Pierre must point to the green and red ribbon in Stephen’s lapel: ‘C’est la Croix de Guerre!’ so that in the end they all gathered round to admire that half-inch of honour and glory. Oh, yes, this home-coming was as friendly and happy as good will and warm Breton hearts could make it. Yet Stephen was oppressed by a sense of restraint when she took Mary up to the charming bedroom overlooking the garden, and she spoke abruptly. ‘This will be your room.’ ‘It’s beautiful, Stephen.’ After that they were silent, perhaps because there was so much that might not be spoken between them . The dinner was served by a beaming Pierre, an excellent dinner, more than worthy of Pauline; but neither of them managed to eat very much—they were far too acutely conscious of each other. When the meal was over they went into the study where, in spite of the abnormal shortage of fuel, Adèle had managed to build a huge fire which blazed recklessly half up the chimney. The room smelt slightly of hothouse flowers, of leather, of old wood and vanished years, and after a while of cigarette smoke. Then Stephen forced herself to speak lightly: ‘Come and sit over here by the fire,’ she said, smiling.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  However, Stephen appeared quite contented—she was launched on her book and was pleased with her writing. Paris inspired her to do good work, and as recreation she now had her fencing—twice every week she now fenced with Buisson, that severe but incomparable master. Buisson had been very rude at first: ‘Hideous, affreux, horriblement English!’ he had shouted, quite outraged by Stephen’s style. All the same he took a great interest in her. ‘You write books; what a pity! I could make you a fine fencer. You have the man’s muscles, and the long, graceful lunge when you do not remember that you are a Briton and become—what you say? ah, mais oui, self-conscious. I wish that I had find you out sooner—however, your muscles are young still, pliant.’ And one day he said: ‘Let me feel the muscles,’ then proceeded to pass his hand down her thighs and across her strong loins: ‘Tiens, tiens!’ he murmured. After this he would sometimes look at her gravely with a puzzled expression; but she did not resent him, nor his rudeness, nor his technical interest in her muscles. Indeed, she liked the cross little man with his bristling black beard and his peppery temper, and when he remarked à propos of nothing: ‘We are all great imbeciles about nature. We make our own rules and call them la nature; we say she do this, she do that —imbeciles! She do what she please and then make the long nose.’ Stephen felt neither shy nor resentful. These lessons were a great relaxation from work, and thanks to them her health grew much better. Her body, accustomed to severe exercise, had resented the sedentary life in London. Now, however, she began to take care of her health, walking for a couple of hours in the Bois every day, or exploring the tall, narrow streets that lay near her home in the Quarter. The sky would look bright at the end of such streets by contrast, as though it were seen through a tunnel. Sometimes she would stand gazing into the shops of the wider and more prosperous Rue des Saints Pères; the old furniture shops; the crucifix shop with its dozens of crucified Christs in the window—so many crucified ivory Christs! She would think that one must surely exist for every sin committed in Paris. Or perhaps she would make her way over the river, crossing by the Pont des Arts. And one morning, arrived at the Rue des Petits Champs, what must she suddenly do but discover the Passage Choiseul, by just stepping inside for shelter, because it had started raining. Oh, the lure of the Passage Choiseul, the queer, rather gawky attraction of it. Surely the most hideous place in all Paris, with its roof of stark wooden ribs and glass panes—the roof that looks like the vertebral column of some prehistoric monster. The chocolate smell of the patisserie —the big one where people go who have money.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  At the end of August, when the work was well under way, she and Puddle fared forth in the motor to visit divers villages and towns, in quest of old furniture, and Stephen was surprised to find how much she enjoyed it. She would catch herself whistling as she drove her car, and when they got back to some humble auberge in the evening, she would want to eat a large supper. Every morning she diligently swung her dumb-bells; she was getting into condition for fencing. She had not fenced at all since leaving Morton, having been too much engrossed in her work while in London; but now she was going to fence before Buisson, so she diligently swung her dumb-bells. During these two months of holiday-making she grew fond of the wide-eyed, fruitful French country, even as she had grown fond of Paris. She would never love it as she loved the hills and the stretching valleys surrounding Morton, for that love was somehow a part of her being, but she gave to this France, that would give her a home, a quiet and very sincere affection. Her heart grew more grateful with every mile, for hers was above all a grateful nature. They returned to Paris at the end of October. And now came the selecting of carpets and curtains; of fascinating blankets from the Magasin de Blanc—blankets craftily dyed to match any bedroom; of fine linen, and other expensive things, including the copper batterie de cuisine, which latter, however, was left to Puddle. At last the army of workmen departed, its place being taken by a Breton ménage—brown-faced folk, strong-limbed and capable looking—a mother, father and daughter. Pierre, the butler, had been a fisherman once, but the sea with its hardships had prematurely aged him. He had now been in service for several years, having contracted rheumatic fever which had weakened his heart and made him unfit for the strenuous life of a fisher. Pauline, his wife, was considerably younger, and she it was who would reign in the kitchen, while their daughter Adèle, a girl of eighteen, would help both her parents and look after the housework.

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

  I hope they will take solace that I am whole, and maybe, just maybe, someday I can serve as a role model to them. My living life on my own terms and then publishing a book about it might be disquieting for them in this moment of time, but when they’re older and less easily embarrassed by me, they might be able to see that, like a phoenix rising from the ashes, I turned the most devastating period of my life into the richest one. It wasn’t an easy trick to pull off and involved a veritable SWAT team: girlfriends with the patience of saints and the enthusiasm of cheerleaders, my mother whose profound wisdom and unconditional love kept me safe, men who enticed me to come alive again sexually, therapists who helped me find my way to a path I had no faith even existed. I hope that witnessing my transformation from a front-row vantage point is a reminder to my kids that there will inevitably be major bumps and dark tunnels throughout their lives, but they have what they need inside themselves to pull through and know how to supplement whatever they can’t locate inside with the love and guidance of other people, just like their mom did. * As I write this afterword, sitting on the porch of a Victorian inn at the Jersey shore on a stormy August day with #6 at my side, I feel content. To our mutual surprise and delight, we are still dating, almost two years after that first date in which he put me in a taxi and hurriedly shut the door behind me. An hour from now, I may feel sad and regretful, but I know that these feelings – the ones that make me sigh with deep inner peace, the ones that make me go mute with grief – come and go. When I walk down to the beach and watch children frolic in the waves and parents wrap them afterward in oversize beach towels, I miss my kids with unbearable intensity and I close my eyes, fighting with myself to be present. I love my time without my kids, the freedom and ease with which I am able to move through my days, but I think about them and pine for them constantly.

• From A History of Christianity (1976)

  which made a contribution to commercial techniques in the way that the Benedictines and the Cistercians had developed agricultural techniques; indeed, even in agriculture, from the early fourteenth century it changed from a producer to a rentier role. The Templars, by acting as bankers, were the only Christian order to make a commercial contribution, and they were suppressed and plundered by the papacy and the crown, acting in concert. During the crusades, which supplied a crucial forum for economic innovation, it was the secular merchants of the Italian maritime cities who took on the role of pioneers, right outside the institutional framework of the Church. Those who practised the incipient capitalism of the later Middle Ages were not irreligious – often they were extremely pious – but they tended to conduct their religious life on their own terms, and outside the constraints and abuses of official Christianity. This blend of anti-clericalism, mild Puritanism, and devotion to commerce – soon to be associated with the ‘Protestant ethic’ of Calvinism – was commonplace in the bigger western cities by the fourteenth century. It is reflected, for instance, in the surviving correspondence of Francesco di Marco Datini, c. 1335– 1410, who traded for thirty years at Avignon, and then at Prato near Florence. His ledgers were inscribed with the Ten Commandments, and many pages have at their head ‘In the name of God and Profit’. This man was a sincere, and on the whole orthodox Catholic (though he joined a flagellant procession on one occasion). But, like Dean Colet, he did not want the money he left to the poor in his will to go through Church channels, and he therefore excluded clerics from its administration. This was very common at the close of the Middle Ages. A growing number of Christian charitable foundations were established beyond the reach of corrupt clerics; it was part of the reassertion of the laity which was the essential dynamic of the Reformation. There is plenty of evidence, then, that the progressive elements in the commercial community were turning against the Church, as the epitome of clericalism, long before the Reformation, and long before Protestantism developed specific doctrines which have since been identified as the generating forces of the capitalist mentality and its work-concentration techniques. In putting forward the theory of the ‘Protestant ethic’, Max Weber and his followers argued that Protestant theology, with its heavy emphasis on justification by faith and predestination, generated ‘a salvation panic’ among believers. This, in turn, led to the methodical practice of good works