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 The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  “It’s really good!” I said. “Chew on it, but don’t swallow it,” the nurse said with a laugh. She smiled real big and brought in other nurses so they could watch me chew my first-ever piece of gum. When she brought me lunch, she told me I had to take out my chewing gum, but she said not to worry because I could have a new stick after eating. If I finished the pack, she would buy me another. That was the thing about the hospital. You never had to worry about running out of stuff like food or ice or even chewing gum. I would have been happy staying in that hospital forever. • • • When my family came to visit, their arguing and laughing and singing and shouting echoed through the quiet halls. The nurses made shushing noises, and Mom and Dad and Lori and Brian lowered their voices for a few minutes, then they slowly grew loud again. Everyone always turned and stared at Dad. I couldn’t figure out whether it was because he was so handsome or because he called people “pardner” and “goomba” and threw his head back when he laughed. One day Dad leaned over my bed and asked if the nurses and doctors were treating me okay. If they were not, he said, he would kick some asses. I told Dad how nice and friendly everyone was. “Well, of course they are,” he said. “They know you’re Rex Walls’s daughter.” When Mom wanted to know what it was the doctors and nurses were doing that was so nice, I told her about the chewing gum. “Ugh,” she said. She disapproved of chewing gum, she went on. It was a disgusting low-class habit, and the nurse should have consulted her before encouraging me in such vulgar behavior. She said she was going to give that woman a piece of her mind, by golly. “After all,” Mom said, “I am your mother, and I should have a say in how you’re raised.” • • • “Do you guys miss me?” I asked my older sister, Lori, during one visit. “Not really,” she said. “Too much has been happening.” “Like what?” “Just the normal stuff.”

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Había tenido la idea después de enlodarnos y notar cómo la manguera había hecho más barro, así que decidí que sería divertido poner una caja de piedras lisas junto a la manguera, así ahora podemos estar de pie con la manguera funcionado y mantener nuestros pies limpios al mismo tiempo. También drena el agua excepcionalmente bien, y será práctica. Cuando vayamos a enlodarnos de nuevo. Ha pasado una semana desde esa noche, y seis días desde que los hijos de Kyle estuvieron de visita nadando, y he intentado transformar lo que pasó entre nosotros, en solo un extraño accidente por estar despechada y vulnerable por atención o algo así, pero eso no ha evitado que crezca lo que he empezado a sentir por él. Es un enamoramiento. Estamos a solas demasiado tiempo, y es comprensible que formemos un lazo. Con suerte, asistir a esta fiesta del barrio, donde llevamos comida para compartir, salir de la casa y estar cerca de otras personas, pondrá las cosas en perspectiva nuevamente. —Y no es tocino de pavo, ¿verdad? —espeta, de repente. ¿Ah? —¿En los rollitos? —aclara, y puedo ver por el rabillo de mis ojos, que me está mirando. Jesús, ¿todavía está pensando en la comida? —Y no le pusiste a hurtadillas nada extraño, como germen de trigo o usaste coliflor en lugar de papas reales en la ensalada de papas como lo hacen algunas de esas malditas dietas bajas en calorías ¿verdad? —continúa. Estallo en carcajadas, dejando caer mi cabeza hacia atrás, mi teléfono cae en mi regazo y cierro mis ojos. Oh, Dios mío. —Jordan, lo digo en serio —me regaña—. He estado esperando esto toda la semana. Mi cuerpo se convulsiona cuando sacudo la cabeza y sonrío. Él es tan raro. Y me divierte que anhele las cosas que hice con tanta vehemencia. Termino riéndome en silencio y entierro mi nariz en mi teléfono otra vez. —Todo es grasoso, salado y delicioso —le digo—. No te preocupes. Te voy a dar un día libre de dieta. Puedes obstruir tus arterias hasta el cansancio. Siento cómo asiente. —Bien. —Hay una breve pausa y luego vuelve a hablar—. Si te sientes incómoda, avísame. Puedo llevarte a casa. —Estaré bien —respondo—. Hablo con gente todo el tiempo en el trabajo. Sé cómo hacer conversación. Dutch y su esposa nos invitaron a Pike, Cole y a mí, pero Cole dijo que tenía que trabajar un turno extra hoy y que no podría venir. Pero cuando estoy revisando la página principal, me encuentro una foto de Patrick’s Last Ditch, la súper tienda de conveniencia a las afueras de la ciudad, y reconozco el automóvil de Cole en la estación de gasolina. Es su publicación. ¡Salimos de la ciudad por el día! ¡Yuhuuuuu! Trabajando, mi trasero. Pero sí parece inusualmente ambicioso por parte de él.

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

  Neither of us accepted, as was soon known, any invitation to whatsoever entertainment where the other was not also a guest. At the public promenades we either walked, rode or drove together. In fact, had our union been blessed by the Church, it could not have been a closer one. Let the moralist after that explain to me the harm we did, or the law-giver that would apply to us the penalty inflicted to the worst of criminals, the wrong we did to society. "Although we did not dress alike, still—being almost of the same build, of about the same age, as well as of identical tastes—the people, who saw us always arm-in-arm, ended by not being able to think of the one apart from the other. "Our friendship had almost become proverbial, and 'No Réné without Camille' had become a kind of by-word." "But you, that had been so terrorized by the anonymous note, did you not fear that people might begin to suspect the real nature of your attachment?" "That fear had quite passed away. Does the shame of a divorce-court keep the adultress from meeting her lover? Do the impending terrors of the law keep the thief from stealing? My conscience had been lulled by happiness into a calm repose; moreover, the knowledge I had acquired at Briancourt's gatherings, that I was not the only member of our cankered society who loved in the Socratic fashion, and that men of the highest intelligence, of the kindest heart, and of the purest aesthetic feelings, were—like myself—sodomists, quieted me. It is not the pains of hell we dread, but rather the low society we might meet there below. "The ladies now had, I believe, begun to suspect that our excessive friendship was of too loving a nature; and as I have heard since, we had been nicknamed the angels of Sodom—hinting, thereby, that these heavenly messengers had not escaped their doom. But what did I care if some tribades suspected us of sharing their own frailties." "And your mother?" "She was actually suspected of being Réné's mistress. I was amused by it; the idea was so very absurd." "But had she not any inkling of your love for your friend?" "You know the husband is always the last to suspect his wife's infidelity. She was surprised to see the change wrought in me.

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  Mrs Milne had grown so used to the fads, she had almost ceased to notice them; and in time, as I have said, I grew used to them, too - calling, ‘What colour today, Grace?’ as I dressed in the mornings. ‘May I wear my blue serge suit, or must it be the Oxfords?’ ‘Shall we have gooseberries for supper, or a Battenburg cake?’ I didn’t mind, it came to seem a kind of game; and Gracie’s way was quite as valid a philosophy, I thought, as many others. And her basic passion, for the vivid and the bright, I understood very well. For there were so many lovely colours in the city; and in a sense she tutored me to look at them anew. As I strolled about I would keep a watch for pictures and dresses that I knew that she would like, then bring them home for her. She had a number of huge albums, into which she pasted cuttings and scraps: I would find her magazines and little books, to worry at with her scissors; I would buy her flowers from the flower-girls’ stalls: violets, carnations, lavender statice and blue forget-me-nots. When I presented them to her - producing them with a flourish, from under my coat, like a conjuror - she would flush with pleasure, and perhaps dip me a playful little curtsey. Mrs Milne would look on, pleased as anything, but shaking her head and pretending to chide. ‘Tut!’ she would say to me. ‘You will turn that girl’s head right round, one of these days, I swear it!’ And I would think for a second how queer it was that she - who had been so careful to keep her daughter from the covetous glances of fresh young men - should encourage Grace and me to play at sweethearts, so blithely, and with such seeming unconcern. But it was impossible to think very hard about anything in that household, where life was so even and idle and sweet. And because, since losing Kitty, thinking was the occupation I cared for least, this suited me best of all. So the months slid by. My birthday arrived: I had not marked its passing at all the year before; but now there were gifts, and a cake with green candles. Christmas came, bringing more presents, and a dinner. I remembered with some small, insistent portion of my brain the two gay Christmases that I had spent with Kitty; and then I thought of my family. Davy, I supposed, would be married by now, and possibly a father - that made me an aunt.

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  Chapter 6 T he months, that year, seemed to slide by very swiftly; for, of course, we were busier now than ever. We continued to work our hit - the song about the sovereigns and the winks - all through the spring and summer, but there were always new songs, new routines to labour over and perfect, new orchestras to grow familiar with, new theatres, and new costumes. Of the latter, we acquired so many that we found we couldn’t manage them without help, and took on a girl to do my old job - to mend the suits and to help us dress in them, at the side of the stage. We grew rich - or rich, at least, as far as I was concerned. At the Star, in Bermondsey, Kitty had started on a couple of pounds a week, and I had thought my own, small dresser’s share of that quite grand enough. Now I earned ten, twenty, thirty times that figure, on my own account, and sometimes more. The sums seemed unimaginable to me: I preferred, perhaps foolishly, not to think of them at all, but let Walter worry over our wages. He, in response to our great successes, had found new agents for his other artistes and was now our manager full-time. He negotiated our contracts, our publicity, and held our money for us; he paid Kitty and she, as before, gave me whatever little cash I needed, when I asked her for it. It was rather strange with Walter, now that Kitty and I had grown so close. We saw him quite as often as we had before; we still went driving with him; we still spent long hours with him at Mrs Dendy’s piano (though the piano itself had been changed, to a more expensive one). He was as kind and as foolish as ever - but a little dimmed, somehow, a little shadowy, now that the blaze of Kitty’s charms was more decidedly turned my way. Perhaps it only seemed so to me; but I was sorry for him, and could not help but wonder what he thought. I was sure he hadn’t guessed that Kitty and I were sweethearts - for, of course, we were rather cool ourselves, in public, now. As rich as we became that year, we were never quite rich enough to be so very choosy about the kind of halls we sang in. For the whole of September we played at the Trocadero - a very smart theatre, and one of the ones that Walter had pointed out to us on our first, giddy tour of the West End, more than a year before.

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  I sucked at my lip. ‘Some joker is sure to shout “Hurrah” at that point, you know.’ ‘Not really, Nance?’ ‘You may count on it. But you mustn’t let it unsettle you, or you’ll be done for. Go on, now, let’s hear the rest.’ He read the speech - it was a matter of two or three pages, no more - and I listened, and frowned. ‘You will talk into the paper,’ I said at the end. ‘No one will be able to hear. They will get bored, and start talking amongst themselves. I have seen it happen a hundred times.’ ‘But I must read the words,’ he said. I shook my head. ‘You shall have to learn them, there’s nothing else for it. You shall have to get the piece by heart.’ ‘What? All this?’ He gazed miserably at the pages. ‘A day or two’s work,’ I said. Then I put my hand upon his arm. ‘It is either that, Ralph, or we shall have to put you in a funny suit...’ And so through the whole of April and half of May - for of course it took considerably longer than one or two days for him to learn even so much as a quarter of the words - Ralph and I laboured together over his little speech, forcing the phrases into his head and finding all sorts of tricks to make them stay there. I would sit like a prompter, the papers in my hand, Ralph declaiming before me in an effortful monotone; I would have him recite to me over breakfast, or as we washed the dishes, or sat together beside the fire; I would stand outside the kitchen door and have him shout the words out to me as he lay in his bath. ‘How many times have you heard economists say that England is the richest nation in the world? If you were to ask them what they meant by that, they would answer ... they would answer ...’ ‘Ralph! They would answer: Look about you -’ ‘They would answer: Look about you, at our great palaces and public buildings, our country houses and our ...’ ‘Our factories -’ ‘Our factories and our ...’ ‘Our Empire, Ralph!’ In time, of course, I learned the whole wretched speech myself, and could leave the sheets aside; but in time, too, Ralph managed more or less to con it, and was able to stumble through from start to finish, without any prompts at all, and sounding almost sensible.

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  I went at once. Now, since my very first trouser-wearing days at Mrs Dendy’s, I had sported a wonderful variety of gentlemen’s suits. From the plain to the pantomimic, from the military to the effeminate, from the brown broad-cloth to the yellow velveteen - as soldier, sailor, valet, renter, errand-boy, dandy and comedy duke - I had worn them all, and worn them wisely and rather well. But the costume that awaited me in my bedroom that day in Diana’s villa in Felicity Place was the richest and the loveliest I ever wore; and I can remember it still, in all its marvellous parts. There was a jacket and trousers of bone-coloured linen, and a waistcoat, slightly darker, with a silken back. These came wrapped together in a box lined with velvet; in a separate package I found three piqué shirts, each a shade lighter than the one before it, and each so fine and closely woven it shone like satin, or like the surface of a pearl. Then there were collars, white as a new tooth; studs, of opal, and cuff-links of gold. There was a neck-tie and a cravat of an amber-coloured, watered silk: they gleamed and rippled as I drew them from their tissue, and slithered from my fingers to the floor like snakes. A flat wooden case held gloves - one pair of kid, with covered buttons, the other of doe-skin and fragrant as musk. In a velvet bag I found socks and drawers and under-shirts - not of flannel, as my linen had been till now, but of knitted silk. For my head there was a creamy homburg with a trim that matched the neckties; for my feet there was a pair of shoes - a pair of shoes of a chestnut leather so warm and rich I felt compelled at once to apply my cheek to it, and then my lips; and finally, my tongue. A last, flimsy package I almost overlooked: this held a set of handkerchiefs, each one as fine and fragile as the pique shirts and each embroidered with a tiny, flowing N.K. The suit, in all its parts, with all its delicate, harmonising textures and hues, enchanted me; but this last detail, and the unmistakable stamp of permanence it conferred upon my relations with the passionate and generous mistress of my curious new home - well, this last detail satisfied me most of all. I bathed then, and dressed before the glass; and then I threw back the window-shutters, lit a cigarette, and gazed upon myself as I stood smoking. I looked - I think I can say without vanity - a treat. The suit, like all expensive clothes, had a bearing and a lustre all of its own: it would have made more or less anyone look handsome.

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

  She’s found that lightening up on herself has been essential for getting the most joy out of her music, which comes especially when she’s jamming and improvising with fellow musicians. It’s a lesson that she finds applies to the rest of life as well. Truth is, however much they may try, other people can’t make you feel safe. Only you can do that. When you do, you spring open countless opportunities to forge fresh instances of that elusive state we call chemistry. Love 2.0: The View from Here Loving is a skill. It takes practice. When you set the goal of learning to love yourself, you’ll find ever-present opportunities to practice this new skill, because you’re never further than arm’s reach, or perhaps better said, heart’s reach. Just like all forms of positivity resonance, however, self-love first requires safety and connection. Beating yourself up with the continual harshness of self-criticism is no way to make yourself feel safe in your own company. Likewise, if your self-assessments are unflappably sunny, unhinged from reality, or otherwise blind to your ingrained bad habits, you can hardly feel safe either. A true friend, after all, is the one who tells you the truth. He or she affirms you realistically and often, and yet does not abandon you or grow silent when a negative assessment is prudent. Creating a sense of safety within your own skin is just the same. To access self-love, disengage from harshness in your self-talk, but not from reality. Affirm your positive qualities, but refrain from delusion and self-deception. Be your own compassionate truth-teller. Love’s second precondition is connection. This is no less true for self-love than for positivity resonance with others. Truly loving yourself requires that you slow down enough to truly meet yourself heart to heart, letting the heart of your I resonate with the heart of your me . Allow time to reflect on your inherent strivings for goodness. Tune in to the messages your body sends you. You can’t simply rush from one activity to the next, attending forever outward, and expect to fall into self-love. Indeed, you might let rushing about serve as your cue to switch gears. Self-love, we’ve seen, is not the same as having an inflated, narcissistic view of yourself or high self-esteem. These often hinge on good outcomes, making you rigidly guard against negative feedback. When bad news crashes through, it sends you into a free fall. 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.

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

  Remind yourself how your heart is nestled between your two lungs. Consider how each in-breath gently massages your heart, in a tender, cradling embrace. Begin now to breathe normally, making no special effort to breathe in any particular way. Continue to rest your awareness on your heart. Consider how each in- breath nourishes you, as your heart drinks in precious oxygen. This passage of oxygen—from the nearby air, through your lungs and then into your beating heart and bloodstream—is the most basic and constant connection between you and the world around you. This simple action of breathing knits together all that is within you with all that lies beyond your skin. Each new breath thus creates a unity of life and community as all people alike share the nourishment that the earth’s atmosphere freely offers. All drink from the same well. Simply witness yourself, now, drinking in oxygen from the well of life that surrounds you. When you’re ready, check in with how your body is feeling today, at this very moment. Are you experiencing any aches and pains? Any worries or areas of tension? Or are you excited, caught up in eager anticipation of something new? Whatever the feeling, there’s no need to push it aside. Pleasant or not, let the feeling in. Accept it as part of what it means to be you at this moment. Meet the feeling with curiosity and openness. Explore it. Note how this feeling registers in your body and how those bodily feelings change—subtly—from one moment to the next. Whether your current experience is pleasant or unpleasant, just witness and accept it. Whether events in your life are presenting you with good or bad fortune these days, just witness and accept those events. See them as part of the inevitable ups and downs that all people experience, no matter what part of this earth they call home. And just as surely as all people face good and bad fortune, and experience pleasant and unpleasant emotions, all people—all the world over—yearn to feel good, safe, peaceful, and healthy. Alongside this awareness of suffering’s inevitability and the fundamental sameness of all people, you can choose to wish yourself well. You deserve this kindness as much as anyone. Now, put your intention for this particular practice session, whatever it is, into words. This will shine a light on the path you choose and help you get back on it when your mind inevitably strays. Begin by lightly calling to mind your own good qualities. If it helps, briefly visualize an event that exemplifies one of those good qualities. No need to launch an exhaustive hunt for the “best” good quality or the “best” exemplifying event. Just lightly accept whatever good quality or instance of it that comes to mind.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  A FRANKLIN was in our company, a landowner free but not noble. The beard of this freeholder was as white as a daisy, and he was of red-cheeked sanguinary humour. That is to say, he was vigorous and cheerful. It was his custom, in the morning, to dip pieces of white bread into red wine; it may have been a tribute to his complexion. He was a true son of Epicurus, and thought no life more worthwhile than that of ease and pure delight. He held the opinion that sensual pleasure was the goal of every reasonable man. It was the secret of happiness itself. He was a lavish host in his neighbourhood, and worshipped at the shrine of Saint Julian, the patron saint of hospitality. His bread and his ale were always of the finest quality; he had a well-stocked wine-cellar, too. There was no shortage of roast meat at his table. There were baked pheasants, and geese, and wild fowl, and pullets, and pork. There was fish served in green sauce, partridges roasted in ginger, peacocks with pepper sauce, lobster in vinegar, fried eels in sugar and mackerel in mint sauce. The meals changed with the seasons, but they were always plentiful. The whole house snowed meat and drink. He even had a pen for his birds, and a pond for his fish. So the food was always fresh and always renewed. He would berate his cook if the sauces were not piquant and sharp and if the utensils - the flesh-hooks, the skimmers and skillets, the ladles and pestles - were not prepared. His table was always covered in the hall, ready for use. But he was not just a man of appetite. He presided at the sessions of the local court, and on many occasions represented the shire in the parliament house. He had been a sheriff, and a county auditor. Upon his girdle there hung a dagger, and a silk purse as white as morning milk. There had never been such a worthy freeholder. I told him so, and he laughed. ‘Well, sir,’ he said, ‘I walk in the open way.’

• From The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  “Do we have to have this conversation?” Mom asked. “I’ve seen some good movies lately. Can’t we talk about the movies?” I suggested to Mom that she sell her Indian jewelry. She wouldn’t consider it. She loved that jewelry. Besides, they were heirlooms and had sentimental value. I mentioned the land in Texas. “That land’s been in the family for generations,” Mom said, “and it’s staying in the family. You never sell land like that.” I asked about the property in Phoenix. “I’m saving that for a rainy day.” “Mom, it’s pouring.” “This is just a drizzle,” she said. “Monsoons could be ahead!” She sipped her tea. “Things usually work out in the end.” “What if they don’t?” “That just means you haven’t come to the end yet.” She looked across the table and smiled at me with the smile you give people when you know you have the answers to all their questions. And so we talked about movies.

• From The Case for God (2009)

  Authentic religious discourse could not lead to clear, distinct, and empirically verified truth. Like the Brahman, the atman was “ungraspable.” You could define something only when you saw it as separate from yourself. But “when the Whole [Brahman] has become a person’s very self, then who is there for him to see and by what means? Who is there for me to think of and by what means?”55 But if you learned to “realize” the truth that your most authentic “Self” was identical with Brahman, you understood that it too was “beyond hunger and thirst, sorrow and delusion, old age and death.”56 You could not achieve this insight by rational logic. You had to acquire the knack of thinking outside the ordinary “lowercase” self, and like any craft or skill, this required long, hard, dedicated practice. One of the principal technologies that enabled people to achieve this self-forgetfulness was yoga.57 Unlike the yoga practiced in Western gyms today, it was not an aerobic exercise but a systematic breakdown of instinctive behavior and normal thought patterns. It was mentally demanding and, initially, physically painful. The yogin had to do the opposite of what came naturally. He sat so still that he seemed more like a plant or a statue than a human being; he controlled his respiration, one of the most automatic and essential of our physical functions, until he acquired the ability to exist for long periods without breathing at all. He learned to silence the thoughts that coursed through his mind and concentrate “on one point” for hours at a time. If he persevered, he found that he achieved a dissolution of ordinary consciousness that extracted the “I” from his thinking. To this day, yogins find that these disciplines, which have measurable physical and neurological effects, evoke a sense of calm, harmony, and equanimity that is comparable to the effect of music. There is a feeling of expansiveness and bliss, which yogins regard as entirely natural, possible for anybody who has the talent and application. As the “I” disappears, the most humdrum objects reveal wholly unexpected qualities, since they are no longer viewed through the distorting filter of one’s own egotistic needs and desires. When she meditated on the teachings of her guru, a yogin did not simply accept them notionally but experienced them so vividly that her knowledge was, as the texts say, “direct;” bypassing the logical processes like any practically acquired skill, it had become part of her inner world.58

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  pero si los vecinos deciden llamar a la policía por el ruido, mi medida de seguridad, para evitar que los niños conduzcan en estado de ebriedad, no me salvaría de la ilegalidad de permitir que menores de edad beban aquí, en primer lugar. Aunque tengo un policía abajo, así que supongo que las probabilidades están de mi lado. Entro en la cocina, viendo fugazmente a los asistentes de la fiesta afuera, y veo a Jordan junto al refrigerador, sacando la caja rosa con el pastel. Se da vuelta y lo coloca en la isla, mirando hacia arriba y encontrando mis ojos. —No voy a comerlo todavía —dice—. De lo contrario, tendré que compartirlo. Solo quiero verlo. La aprehensión se apodera de mí mientras levanta la tapa, y hay una disculpa en mis labios incluso cuando la veo romper en una sonrisa emocionada. Camino hacia el refrigerador y tomo un refresco por la que finjo que vine aquí. —Lo siento si es infantil —le digo—. No estoy seguro de lo que estaba pensando. Se cruza de brazos y muerde sus labios, como si tratara de contenerse, pero no funciona. Puedo ver el rubor en sus mejillas en la cocina oscura y la forma en que su aliento está temblando. Gira su cabeza hacia mí. —No creo que alguna vez haya tenido un pastel tan lindo —dice—. Gracias por pensar en mí. Es una agradable sorpresa. Mira de nuevo el pastel, con una mirada de nostalgia en sus ojos. Estupendo. Ahora me siento peor. Parece que esto es lo más amable que alguien ha hecho por ella, y ¿no sería eso jodidamente triste? Aunque es un bonito pastel. El glaseado está diseñado en rosas y comienza en la parte inferior en blanco y lentamente se va haciendo más rosado por fila a medida que sube hacia la parte superior, donde finalmente está envuelto en un sexy rosa oscuro. Viste, no fue estúpido. Sabía que le gustaba el rosa. —También es rosa por dentro —le digo—. Pastel rosa, quiero decir. Su sonrisa se hace más grande. Y ahora que lo recuerdo, no está hecho para niños. El pastel está hecho con champán, dijo la vendedora. Bueno, lo hice bien. Mi cabeza finalmente evoluciona hacia la perspectiva que tenía cuando la compré, y me siento menos torturado. Sumerge su dedo en una rosa y se lo lleva a la boca, chupando el azúcar. Mi mirada se congela, viendo la forma en que sus labios se fruncen y su lengua sale para lamer el pedacito de glaseado que queda en la punta. Gimo por dentro, incapaz de evitar preguntarme qué tan cálida es su boca. Me aclaro la garganta. —Eh, me olvidé por completo de las velas —lo admito, moviéndome al cajón detrás de mí—, pero sé que tienes que hacer esto, así que… Saco una caja de fósforos, al lado del sujetador para sartenes, y enciendo uno, voy a colocarlo en el centro del pastel, pero me detengo. —¿Deberíamos llamar a Cole?

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  That is why I have this plan of my own to put to you. It will keep you merry. So if you all agree to abide by my judgement, and play the game I have invented, I promise on my father’s soul that you will be mightily entertained in the course of your journey tomorrow. Please, without more ado, hold up your hands in assent to my proposal!’ It did not take us long to decide. There was no point, in any case, in long deliberations. Without any real discussion, then, we all put up our hands in agreement with him. We had to ask, of course, what his actual plan was. ‘Well, gentle ladies and gentle men,’ he replied, ‘I have a proposal. Take it in good spirit. Don’t mock me. It is unusual, I admit, but it is not unprecedented.’ ‘Do tell us,’ the Manciple said. ‘We are on tenterhooks until we hear you.’ ‘Well, to be brief, I suggest this. On our way to Canterbury each of you will tell two stories. As every traveller knows, tales shorten journeys. Then on the way back to London, each pilgrim will tell two more.’ ‘Tales of what kind?’ The Prioress was very demure. ‘Anything you like, ma dame. Tales of saints. Tales of battles and adventures from long ago. And here comes my other proposal. The pilgrim who tells the best story, by common consent, will be awarded a free supper paid for by the rest. Here. In the Tabard on our return. What do you think?’ ‘What do you mean by best?’ the Miller asked him. The Miller had a menacing face. I expected trouble from him in the future. ‘It could be the most serious story. It could be the funniest. It could be the most pleasant. Let us see what happens. In fact the idea is such a good one that I can’t resist coming along myself. I will ride with you tomorrow morning. I will make the journey at my own cost, and I will also be your guide. None of you are familiar with the way. Anyone who challenges, or disputes with, me will have to pay a penalty. He or she will be responsible for all the costs incurred on our travels. Is that reasonable? Let me know now. Then I can get ready for the feast of words.’ We agreed with his suggestion, and swore an oath that we would all perform as promised. Then we asked him if he would become our governor as well as our guide. He was the one who could best judge the quality of the stories, but he could also be the arbitrator in less important matters like the price of our suppers. We would all be ruled by his decisions. So by acclamation we decided to follow our leader. Then the wine was brought out and, after a cup or two, we went off to bed without any prompting. We were cheerful, though.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  There is one thing I can say for certain, sirs and dames. If two lovers want to remain in love, they had better accede to each other’s wishes. Love will not be constrained by domination. When mastery rears up, then the god of love beats his wings and flies away. Love should be as free as air. Women, of their nature, crave for liberty; they will not be ordered around like servants. Men are the same, of course. The one who is most patient and obedient is the one who triumphs in the end. Patience is a great virtue and, as the scholars tell us, will accomplish what the exercise of power never can achieve. People should not reply in kind to every complaint or attack. We must all learn to suffer and endure, whether we like it or not. Everyone in this world, at one time or another, will say or do an unwise thing. It might be out of anger or of sickness; it might be the influence of the stars or of the bodily humours; it might be drink or suffering. Whatever the cause, all of us will make mistakes. We cannot persecute every error, therefore. The best policy is mildness. It is the only way to retain self-control. That is why this knight agreed to be a devoted and obedient husband, and why the lady in turn promised that she would never hurt or offend him. Here then we see a wise agreement, a pact of mutual respect. The lady has gained both a servant and a lord, a servant in love and a lord in marriage. He is both master and slave. Slave? No. He is pre-eminently a master, because he now has both his lady and his love. According to the law of love, his lady has become his wife. In this happy state he took her back to his own region of the country, where he had a house not far from the coast of Brittany. His name, by the way, was Arveragus. Her name was Dorigen. Who could possibly describe their happiness? Only a married man. They lived together in peace and prosperity for a year or more, until that time when Arveragus decided to sail to England. Britain, as our nation was then called, was the home of chivalry and adventure. That is why he wanted to move here. He wanted to engage in feats of arms. The old story informs us that he lived in Britain for two years.

• From The Case for God (2009)

  But for Montaigne, reason was so blind and lame that nothing was certain or even probable. If an argument was sufficiently attractive, human beings could be persuaded to believe almost anything. But, far from being cast down by this unknowing, Montaigne was able to live quite happily with this modest assessment of the human intellect and seemed to enjoy the diversity and complexity of early modern life. Like the Renaissance humanists, he had no wish to pass judgment on a world that was daily becoming more difficult to assess. He regarded himself as a loyal Catholic but, in light of the new discoveries that constantly revealed the limits of human understanding, judged the attempt to impose any kind of orthodoxy as arrogant, futile, and dishonest. It would be a mistake to imagine that the entire population absorbed the new ideas instantaneously. The vast majority probably felt obscurely perplexed at the sudden fragmentation of Christendom without any clear understanding of what was going on. For at least two hundred years, old mental habits of thought persisted, sometimes jostling uneasily with the new values, and we can see this at work even in the scientific revolution. In 1530, Nicolaus Copernicus (1473— 1543), the Polish-born canon of the cathedral of Frauenburg in Prussia, completed De revolutionibus, a thesis that argued that the sun was the center of the universe. A typical Renaissance man, Copernicus had studied mathematics, optics, and perspective at Krakow, canon law in Bologna, and medicine at Padua and had lectured on astronomy in Rome. In Frauenberg, working at different times as a church administrator, bailiff, military governor, judge, and physician, he had continued his study of the stars. Copernicus knew that most of the population would find the idea of a heliocentric, or sun-centered, universe impossible either to understand or to accept, so he did not publish his treatise but circulated the manuscript privately. Nevertheless, De revolutionibus was widely read in both Catholic and Protestant countries and inspired a good deal of interest. Since the twelfth century, Europeans had adopted a cosmology based on Aristotelian physics and popularized by the Egyptian astronomer Ptolemy (c. 90–168). 46 The Earth was firmly at the center of the universe, encased like an onion in eight spherical shells composed of an invisible substance called ether. These spheres revolved in a uniform manner around the Earth, and embedded in the ether of each of the first seven spheres was one of the heavenly bodies: Moon, Mercury, Venus, Sun, Mars, Jupiter, and Saturn. The fixed stars occupied the eighth sphere at the outermost rim of the universe and gave stability to the whole. The Ptolemaic system was the most accurate account of the data that had been accumulated in the ancient world, when techniques of observation had, of course, been limited and inadequate. The medievals also found it morally satisfying.

• From The Case for God (2009)

  By looking after the poor compassionately, freeing their slaves, and performing small acts of kindness on a daily, hourly basis, Muslims would acquire a responsible, caring spirit, purging themselves of pride and selfishness. By modeling their behavior on that of the Creator, they would achieve spiritual refinement. 95 In these early days, Muslims did not see Islam as a new, exclusive religion but as a continuation of the primordial faith of the “People of the Book,” the Jews and Christians. In one remarkable passage, God insists that Muslims must accept indiscriminately the revelations of every single one of God’s messengers: Abraham, Isaac, Ishmael, Jacob, Moses, Jesus, and all the other prophets. 96 The Qur’an is simply a “confirmation” of the previous scriptures. 97 Nobody must be forced to accept Islam, because each of the revealed traditions had its own din; it was not God’s will that all human beings should belong to the same faith community. 98 God was not the exclusive property of any one tradition; the divine light could not be confined to a single lamp, belonged neither to the East nor to the West, but enlightened all human beings. 99 Muslims must speak courteously to the People of the Book, debate with them only in “the most kindly manner,” remember that they worshipped the same God, and not engage in pointless, aggressive disputes. 100 All this would require a ceaseless jihad (which did not mean “holy war” but “effort,” “struggle”), because it was extremely difficult to implement the will of God in a tragically flawed world. Muslims must make a determined endeavor on all fronts—intellectual, social, economic, moral, spiritual, and political. Sometimes they might have to fight, as Muhammad did when the Meccan kafirun vowed to exterminate the Muslim community. But aggressive warfare was outlawed, and the only justification for war was self-defense. 101 Warfare was far from being the prime Muslim duty. An important and oft-quoted tradition (hadith) has Muhammad say on his way home after a battle: “We are returning from the Lesser Jihad [the battle] and going to the Greater Jihad,” the far more important and difficult struggle to reform one’s own society and one’s own heart. Eventually, when the war with Mecca was turning in his favor, Muhammad adopted a policy of nonviolence. 102 When Mecca finally opened its gates voluntarily, nobody was forced to enter Islam and Muhammad made no attempt to implement an exclusively Islamic state there.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  For you know this as well as I do - if I intend to repeat the tale of another man, I must write it down precisely as I heard it word for word. I have a good example. Christ spoke out plainly in the gospels, and no one has ever accused him of rudeness. To the best of my ability I will record accurately all of the tales and conversations of the pilgrims, however obscene or absurd they may turn out to be. Otherwise my work will be inaccurate. It will be mere fiction. I will not spare my characters, even if one of them happens to be my brother. Characters? No. People. Living people. The words of living people will be preserved by me. I want you to hear their voices, just as if you were riding with us. Those who have read Plato will know well enough his apothegm, ‘The word must be cousin to the deed.’ I have another request to make. I hope you will forgive me if I do not introduce people precisely in their order of rank. Put it down to my general stupidity. Well. Enough of this rambling. Our HOST gave us all good cheer, and set down a tasty supper for us on the table. In the tavern itself there were cries of ‘Tapster, fill the bowl!’ and ‘One pot more!’ He served us good fish and flesh; the wine was strong and potable. We all agreed, after our leather cups were filled, that the landlord was an attractive man. He could have acted as master of ceremonies at any public feast. He was a large fellow with bright eyes. You could not find a fairer citizen in the whole of Cheapside. He was forthright in speech, but he was also shrewd and apparently well educated. I did not find out what school he attended. Anyway, he possessed all the characteristics of a proper man. He was merry enough and, after supper, he began to amuse us with several stories. He trusted that we would enjoy ourselves on this journey and, after we had all paid our bills, he addressed us with these words. ‘Now, good ladies and gentlemen, I would like to bid you all welcome to my inn. I must say that I have not come across a more joyful group of people under my roof. If I could entertain you more, then I would. Gladly. In fact I have hit upon one scheme to make your journey easier and more agreeable. Hear me out. It will cost you nothing. We all know that you are on your way to Canterbury where Saint Thomas, God bless him, will no doubt reward you for your devotion. And I fully expect that you will pass the time in telling stories and other amusements. That is only natural. There is no comfort or entertainment to be had in riding silently together, as dumb as any stone.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  ‘You will get no fable from me, Mr Bailey,’ the Parson replied. ‘Do you not recall the words of Paul to Timothy? He condemns those who stray from the path of truth and who invent lies or fantasies. Why should I give you chaff when I can offer you good wheat? So if you wish to hear morality and virtuous matter, I am your man. If you are willing to give me an audience I will do my best to mix instruction with delight. But I am a man of the south. I cannot call a lady “a bonny wee thing” or tell you something “canny”. I cannot lay claim to being much of a poet, either, so I will tell you something pleasing and suitable in prose. Now, at the end of our journey, I will bring matters to a conclusion. May the Saviour guide me and inspire me to lead you to Jerusalem. Our pilgrimage on earth is an image of the glorious pilgrimage to the celestial city. With your permission I will now begin my story. What is your opinion? ‘There is one other thing. I am no scholar. I am sure that there are some among you who are more learned and able than I am. I can offer you only the substance, the essential meaning, and I am perfectly willing to be corrected.’ We all agreed to this. It seemed good to us that we should end our journey with some virtuous text. We were happy to hear the Parson’s soft voice at the end of the day. So we asked our Host to entreat him to continue. ‘Sir priest,’ he said, ‘God be with you. Give us the fruit of your contemplations. But you must hurry. The sun is sinking in the sky. Give us much matter in a short space. May God help you in your task, good man. Now please begin.’ So the Parson rode before us, and began his story. We had entered a forest. ‘Our sweet Lord God of heaven, who wills that all men have full knowledge of His godhead and live in the sweet bliss of eternity, admonishes us with the wise words of the prophet Jeremiah. Stand upon the old paths and find from old scriptures the right way which is the good way, on this pilgrimage upon the earth . . .’ I held my horse back as the pilgrims made their way among the trees. The evening fell and the birds of the forest were silent. I could still hear him speaking of ‘the right way to Jerusalem the Celestial’ when I dismounted and walked into a small grove. There I went down on my knees and prayed. Chaucer’s Retractions Here taketh the makere of this book his leve

• From The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  MY LIFE WITH ERIC was calm and predictable. I liked it that way, and four years after I moved into his apartment, we got married. Shortly after the wedding, Mom’s brother, my uncle Jim, died in Arizona. Mom came to the apartment to give me the news and to ask a favor. “We need to buy Jim’s land,” she said. Mom and her brother had each inherited half of the West Texas land that had been owned by their father. The whole time we kids were growing up, Mom had been mysteriously vague about how big and how valuable this land was, but I had the impression that it was a few hundred acres of more or less uninhabitable desert, miles from any road. “We need to keep that land in the family,” Mom told me. “It’s important for sentimental reasons.” “Let’s see if we can buy it, then,” I said. “How much will it cost?” “You can borrow the money from Eric now that he’s your husband,” Mom said. “I’ve got a little money,” I said. “How much will it cost?” I’d read somewhere that off-road land in parched West Texas sold for as little as a hundred dollars an acre. “You can borrow from Eric,” Mom said again. “Well, how much?” “A million dollars.” “What?” “A million dollars.” “But Uncle Jim’s land is the same size as your land,” I said. I was speaking slowly, because I wanted to make sure I understood the implications of what Mom had just told me. “You each inherited half of Grandpa Smith’s land.” “More or less,” Mom said. “So if Uncle Jim’s land is worth a million dollars, that means your land is worth a million dollars.” “I don’t know.” “What do you mean, you don’t know? It’s the same size as his.” “I don’t know how much it’s worth, because I never had it appraised. I was never going to sell it. My father taught me you never sell land. That’s why we have to buy