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 Decameron (1353)

  Gracious ladies, it goes without saying that the more cunning a person is, the greater our satisfaction in seeing that person cunningly deceived. And hence, whilst the stories you have told have all been excellent, the one I propose to relate should afford you greater pleasure than any of the others, inasmuch as it concerns the duping of a lady who knew far more about the art of deception than any of the men or women who were beguiled in the tales we have heard so far. In the seaports of all maritime countries, it used to be the practice, and possibly still is, that any merchant arriving there with merchandise, having discharged his cargo, takes it to a warehouse, which in many places is called the dogana1 and is maintained by the commune or by the ruler of the state. After presenting a written description of the cargo and its value to the officers in charge, he is given a storeroom where his merchandise is placed under lock and key. The officers then record all the details in their register under the merchant’s name, and whenever the merchant removes his goods from bond, either wholly or in part, they make him pay the appropriate dues. It is by consulting this register that brokers, more often than not, obtain their information about the amount and value of the goods stored at the dogana, together with the names of the merchants to whom they belong. And when a suitable opportunity presents itself, they approach the merchants and arrange to barter, exchange, sell, or otherwise dispose of their merchandise. Among the many seaports where this system prevailed was Palermo, in Sicily, which was also notable, and still is, for the number of women, lovely of body but strangers to virtue, who to anyone unfamiliar with their ways are frequently mistaken for great ladies of impeccable honesty. Their sole aim in life consists, not so much in fleecing men, as in skinning them wholesale, and whenever they catch sight of a merchant from foreign parts, they find out from the dogana register what goods he has deposited there and how much he is worth; after which, using all their charms and amorous wiles, and whispering honeyed words into the ears of their unsuspecting victim, they attempt to ensnare him into falling in love with them. In this way they have enticed a large number of merchants to part with a substantial proportion of their goods, and a great many others to hand over the entire lot, whilst some of them have been known to forfeit not only their merchandise, but their ships as well, and even their flesh and their bones, so daintily has the lady-barber known how to wield her razor.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Then it came about that his wife once more became pregnant, and in due course she gave birth to a son, which pleased Gualtieri enormously. But not being content with the mischief he had done already, he abused her more viciously than ever, and one day he glowered at her angrily and said: ‘Woman, from the day you produced this infant son, the people have made my life a complete misery, so bitterly do they resent the thought of a grandson of Giannùcole succeeding me as their lord. So unless I want to be deposed, I’m afraid I shall be forced to do as I did before, and eventually to leave you and marry someone else.’ His wife listened patiently, and all she replied was: ‘My lord, look to your own comfort, see that you fulfil your wishes, and spare no thought for me, since nothing brings me pleasure unless it pleases you also.’ Before many days had elapsed, Gualtieri sent for his son in the same way that he had sent for his daughter, and having likewise pretended to have had the child put to death, he sent him, like the little girl, to Bologna. To all of this his wife reacted no differently, either in her speech or in her looks, than she had on the previous occasion, much to the astonishment of Gualtieri, who told himself that no other woman could have remained so impassive. But for the fact that he had observed her doting upon the children for as long as he allowed her to do so, he would have assumed that she was glad to be rid of them, whereas he knew that she was too judicious to behave in any other way. His subjects, thinking he had caused the children to be murdered, roundly condemned him and judged him a cruel tyrant, whilst his wife became the object of their deepest compassion. But to the women who offered her their sympathy in the loss of her children, all she ever said was that the decision of their father was good enough for her. Many years after the birth of his daughter, Gualtieri decided that the time had come to put Griselda’s patience to the final test. So he told a number of his men that in no circumstances could he put up with Griselda as his wife any longer, having now come to realize that his marriage was an aberration of his youth. He would therefore do everything in his power to obtain a dispensation from the Pope, enabling him to divorce Griselda and marry someone else. For this he was chided severely by many worthy men, but his only reply was that it had to be done.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Though Fortune had allotted to Cisti a very humble calling, she had treated him so bountifully that he had become exceedingly rich; but it would never have occurred to him to exchange this occupation for any other, for he lived like a lord, and in addition to numerous other splendid possessions, he kept the finest cellar of wines, both red and white, to be found anywhere in Florence or the surrounding region. On noticing that Messer Geri passed by his door every morning with the Pope’s emissaries, it occurred to Cisti that since the season was very hot he might as well do them the kindness of offering them some of his delicious white wine. But, being sensible of the difference in rank between himself and Messer Geri, he considered it would be presumptuous of him to issue an invitation and resolved to arrange matters in such a way that Messer Geri would come of his own accord. And so every morning, wearing a gleaming white doublet and a freshly laundered apron, which made him look more like a miller than a baker, Cisti appeared in his doorway at the hour in which Messer Geri and the emissaries were due to pass by, and called for a shiny metal pail of fresh water and a brand new little Bolognese flagon containing a quantity of his best white wine, together with a pair of wineglasses, that gleamed as brightly as if they were made of silver. He then seated himself in the doorway, and just as they were passing, he cleared his throat a couple of times and began to drink this wine of his with so much relish that he would have brought a thirst to the lips of a corpse. Messer Geri, having witnessed this charade on two successive mornings, turned to him on the third, and said: ‘How does it taste, Cisti? Is it good?’ ‘Indeed it is, sir,’ Cisti replied, springing to his feet, ‘but how am I to prove how exquisite it tastes, unless you sample it for yourself?’ Now, whether because of the heat, or as a result of expending more energy than usual, or through observing Cisti drinking with so much gusto, Messer Geri had conceived such a keen thirst that he turned, smiling, to the emissaries, and said: ‘My lords, we would do well to test the quality of this gentleman’s wine; perhaps it will be such as to give us no cause for regret.’ He thereupon led them over to Cisti, who promptly arranged for a handsome bench to be brought out from his bakery and invited them to sit down. Their servants then stepped forward to wash the wineglasses, but Cisti said: ‘Stand aside, my friends, and leave this office to me, for I am no less skilled at serving wine than at baking bread.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  From then on, they had many a good guzzle together, and instead of giving her the five pounds, the priest put a new skin on her tambourine and tricked it out with a pretty little bell, which made her very happy.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Wherefore, being desirous to follow the good example which Neifile has set us, I feel that for the next two days it would be seemly for us to suspend our pleasant storytelling, as we did last week, and meditate upon the things that were done on those two days for the salvation of our souls.’ The queen’s devout words commanded general approval, and so, a goodly portion of the night being already spent, she dismissed the whole company

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Sometimes, having dined, they would saunter towards home through streets that were crowded with others who sauntered—men and women, a couple of women together—always twos—the fine nights seemed prolific of couples. In the air there would be the inconsequent feeling that belongs to the night life of most great cities, above all to the careless night life of Paris, where problems are apt to vanish with sunset. The lure of the brightly lighted boulevards, the lure of the dim and mysterious bystreets would grip them so that they would not turn homeward for quite a long while, but would just go on walking. The moon, less clear than at Orotava, less innocent doubtless, yet scarcely less lovely, would come sailing over the Place de la Concorde, staring down at the dozens of other white moons that had managed to get themselves caught by the standards. In the cafés would be crowds of indolent people, for the French who work hard know well how to idle; and these cafés would smell of hot coffee and sawdust, of rough, strong tobacco, of men and women. Beneath the arcades there would be the shop windows, illuminated and bright with temptation. But Mary would usually stare into Sulka’s, picking out scarves or neckties for Stephen. ‘That one! We’ll come and buy it to-morrow. Oh, Stephen, do wait—look at that dressing-gown!’ And Stephen might laugh and pretend to be bored, though she secretly nurtured a weakness for Sulka’s. Down the Rue de Rivoli they would walk arm in arm, until turning at last, they would pass the old church of St. Germain—the church from whose Gothic tower had been rung the first call to a most bloody slaying. But now that tower would be grim with silence, dreaming the composite dreams of Paris—dreams that were heavy with blood and beauty, with innocence and lust, with joy and despair, with life and death, with heaven and hell; all the curious composite dreams of Paris. Then crossing the river they would reach the Quarter and their house, where Stephen would slip her latchkey into the door and would know the warm feeling that can come of a union between door and latchkey. With a sigh of contentment they would find themselves at home once again in the quiet old Rue Jacob. 3 They went to see the kind Mademoiselle Duphot, and this visit seemed momentous to Mary. She gazed with something almost like awe at the woman who had had the teaching of Stephen. ‘Oh, but yes,’ smiled Mademoiselle Duphot, ‘I teached her. She was terribly naughty over her dictée; she would write remarks about the poor Henri—très impertinente she would be about Henri! Stévenne was a queer little child and naughty—but so dear, so dear—I could never scold her. With me she done everything her own way.’ ‘Please tell me about that time,’ coaxed Mary.

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  “Not really. It’s not my form of creativity. But Rupert has told me what a superb cook you are, and I greatly admire that.” “We believe it is an important bond for family life,” Helen said, nodding to her husband that he should begin eating. Rupert and Eric followed suit, but Anaïs’s throat was so tight that she had difficulty swallowing. “Delicious as usual, Mother,” Rupert enthused. “I love your cooking.” Better keep Mummy around, then, Anaïs thought. When they all said good-bye to her at the front door—Rupert standing in the hallway with his family as though posed as for their annual Christmas card—Helen came straight out and told her that she was not the woman they had hoped their son would find. So she was surprised when she heard tapping on her motel room door later. “They’re asleep so I slipped out,” Rupert said. She might have objected, but she was hungry for him. Their best language was that of the body, and their lovemaking had become more passionate, more expert, more satisfying each time. With his hands and lips, he directed the tides of her blood, rising in waves, until a huge breaker overcame them, subsiding like bubbling foam. He left at 3 a.m. saying, “I have to get back before they wake up.” For the next eleven days, it became Rupert’s pattern to appear at 10 p.m. after his mother and stepfather had gone to sleep and to leave at midnight so he would be fresh for school. He was a phantom lover who came and went in the night, and it suited Anaïs just fine. She had truly achieved what she had not believed herself capable of: a lightness, a total acceptance of the present without anxiety over what would become of their relationship in the future. In the mornings she would walk to Musso and Frank’s Grill for breakfast where, from her booth, she overheard secret deals being made for blacklisted screenwriters. In the afternoons, she worked on her next novel set in Acapulco to submit to Dutton, confident of her phantom lover’s nightly visits. On her last night before she was to fly back to Acapulco, though, Rupert seemed reluctant to leave her at midnight. “I’m going to miss you.” “You see?” She teased him. “You were concerned my being in Los Angeles would interrupt your studies, but I didn’t at all.” “When will I see you again?” He had never asked that before. She lowered her lids, imagined herself flying off, while he chased after, trying to keep her in sight. “I suppose the next time my work brings me here.” “Anaïs, I heard back on the forestry position I applied for. I’ll be working in Angeles National Forest near LA.” “Congratulations.” “They’re going to give me my own cabin in the woods. We could live there together.”

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Mais comment ferez vous, l’Abbé, Sans chandelle et sans cierge?’ ‘Les astres seront allumés Par Madame la Vierge.’ ‘Mais comment ferez vous, l’Abbé, Ma Doué, Mais comment ferez vous, l’Abbé, Sans orgue résonnante?’ ‘Jésus touchera le clavier Des vagues mugissantes.’ ‘Mais comment ferez vous, l’Abbé, Ma Doué, Mais comment ferez vous, l’Abbé, Si l’Ennemi nous trouble?’ ‘Une seule fois je vous bénirai, Les Bleus bénirai double!’ Closing the study door behind her, Stephen thoughtfully climbed the stairs to her bedroom. CHAPTER 331W ith the New Year came flowers from Valérie Seymour, and a little letter of New Year’s greeting. Then she paid a rather ceremonious call and was entertained by Puddle and Stephen. Before leaving she invited them both to luncheon, but Stephen refused on the plea of her work. ‘I’m hard at it again.’ At this Valérie smiled. ‘Very well then, à bientôt. You know where to find me, ring up when you’re free, which I hope will be soon.’ After which she took her departure. But Stephen was not to see her again for a very considerable time, as it happened. Valérie was also a busy woman—there are other affairs beside the writing of novels. Brockett was in London on account of his plays. He wrote seldom, though when he did so he was cordial, affectionate even; but now he was busy with success, and with gathering in the shekels. He had not lost interest in Stephen again, only just at the moment she did not fit in with his brilliant and affluent scheme of existence. So once more she and Puddle settled down together to a life that was strangely devoid of people, a life of almost complete isolation, and Puddle could not make up her mind whether she felt relieved or regretful. For herself she cared nothing, her anxious thoughts were as always centred in Stephen. 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.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Without saying anything by way of reply, he began to look upon his wife as a model of intelligence and virtue. And just as he had worn the mantle of the jealous husband when it was unnecessary, he cast it off completely now that his need for it was paramount. So his clever little wife, having, as it were, acquired a licence to enjoy herself, no longer admitted her lover by way of the roof as though he were some kind of cat, but showed him in at the front door. And from that day forth, by proceeding with caution, she spent many an entertaining and delightful hour in his arms.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Having done all this, she caused invitations to be sent, in Gual-tieri’s name, to all the ladies living in those parts, and began to await the event. And when at last the nuptial day arrived, heedless of her beggarly attire, she bade a cheerful welcome to each of the lady guests, displaying all the warmth and courtesy of a lady of the manor. Gualtieri’s children having meanwhile been carefully reared by his kinswoman in Bologna, who had married into the family of the Counts of Panago, the girl was now twelve years old, the loveliest creature ever seen, whilst the boy had reached the age of six. Gualtieri had sent word to his kinswoman’s husband, asking him to do him the kindness of bringing this daughter of his to Saluzzo along with her little brother, to see that she was nobly and honourably escorted, and to tell everyone he met that he was taking her to marry Gualtieri, without revealing who she really was to a living soul. In accordance with the Marquis’s request, the gentleman set forth with the girl and her brother and a noble company, and a few days later, shortly before the hour of breakfast, he arrived at Saluzzo, where he found that all the folk thereabouts, and numerous others from neighbouring parts, were waiting for Gualtieri’s latest bride. After being welcomed by the ladies, she made her way to the hall where the tables were set, and Griselda, just as we have described her, went cordially up to meet her, saying: ‘My lady, you are welcome.’ The ladies, who in vain had implored Gualtieri to see that Griselda remained in another room, or to lend her one of the dresses that had once been hers, so that she would not cut such a sorry figure in front of his guests, took their seats at table and addressed themselves to the meal. All eyes were fixed upon the girl, and everyone said that Gualtieri had made a good exchange. But Griselda praised her as warmly as anyone present, speaking no less admiringly of her little brother. Gualtieri felt that he had now seen all he wished to see of the patience of his lady, for he perceived that no event, however singular, produced the slightest change in her demeanour, and he was certain that this was not because of her obtuseness, as he knew her to be very intelligent. He therefore considered that the time had come for him to free her from the rancour that he judged her to be hiding beneath her tranquil outward expression. And having summoned her to his table, before all the people present he smiled at her and said: ‘What do you think of our new bride?’

• From The Decameron (1353)

  In accordance with the Marquis’s request, the gentleman set forth with the girl and her brother and a noble company, and a few days later, shortly before the hour of breakfast, he arrived at Saluzzo, where he found that all the folk thereabouts, and numerous others from neighbouring parts, were waiting for Gualtieri’s latest bride. After being welcomed by the ladies, she made her way to the hall where the tables were set, and Griselda, just as we have described her, went cordially up to meet her, saying: ‘My lady, you are welcome.’ The ladies, who in vain had implored Gualtieri to see that Griselda remained in another room, or to lend her one of the dresses that had once been hers, so that she would not cut such a sorry figure in front of his guests, took their seats at table and addressed themselves to the meal. All eyes were fixed upon the girl, and everyone said that Gualtieri had made a good exchange. But Griselda praised her as warmly as anyone present, speaking no less admiringly of her little brother. Gualtieri felt that he had now seen all he wished to see of the patience of his lady, for he perceived that no event, however singular, produced the slightest change in her demeanour, and he was certain that this was not because of her obtuseness, as he knew her to be very intelligent. He therefore considered that the time had come for him to free her from the rancour that he judged her to be hiding beneath her tranquil outward expression. And having summoned her to his table, before all the people present he smiled at her and said: ‘What do you think of our new bride?’ ‘My lord,’ replied Griselda, ‘I think very well of her. And if, as I believe, her wisdom matches her beauty, I have no doubt whatever that your life with her will bring you greater happiness than any gentleman on earth has ever known.

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  Clara gestured for me to answer, but I nodded back, wanting to hear her take on Anaïs. Clara began, probably borrowing from her prepared class on French women writers: “The French like Nin because they have a tradition for her. She follows in a direct line from the French courtesans who were better known for their lovers and literary salons than their own writing. They were professional muses: Marion Delorme, Claudine-Alexandrine Guerin de Tencin, Marie Duplessis, Ninon de l’Enclos.” Clara deferentially flipped a hand to emphasize her ease with these French names. “They were like the Greek hetaera or the Japanese geishas,” she continued, “experts in the arts of pleasing men. They were oppressed because they could only survive by maintaining the pleasure of their male patrons. They could hold power only as long as their sexual appeal lasted, though some of them were able to make it last well into old age thanks to their beauty tricks.” “Do you know any of those tricks?” the provost’s secretary asked. “They were stupid. They used white powder that gave them lead poisoning.” Clara waved away the question. “That’s not the point. The point is they were hardly liberated.” “Well, they were for their time,” I argued. Clara took my opinion seriously. “I suppose you could say that. By being parasites on the nobility they had better lives than servant women or farmer’s wives, but that was a question of class.” I enjoyed batting ideas with Clara; she always came back with a well-reasoned argument, an intellectual muscularity absent in the feminine subjectivity and intuition Anaïs heralded. I countered to Clara, “In some ways the courtesans were better off than we are. They had the leisure to write. Their time wasn’t taken up having children, or working, or managing households.” I realized immediately that Clara would see “leisure to write” as an elitist concern, but the provost’s secretary jumped in: “Sounds like a liberated life to me!” Clara gave her a withering look. “A muse spends her life enabling men’s creativity instead of her own.” “Well, Anaïs Nin isn’t just a muse.” I came to my mentor’s defense. “She’s a diarist and novelist in her own right. Maybe she was a muse to Henry Miller when they were in Paris, but now she’s committed to her own work.” Even as I was saying it, though, I realized it wasn’t true. Anaïs had completely abandoned her diary and novel writing, in favor of playing muse to her fans through her prolific correspondence. Clara was right, as well, that Anaïs was like a courtesan in that everything about her was delicate and feminine—her soft voice, her graceful movements, her painstaking appearance—as if she’d been designed to fulfill men’s fantasies. Clara smirked at my defense of Anaïs. “Oh, that’s right, you know her, don’t you?” “A little.” “You know her?” the provost’s secretary interrupted. “Can you get her to visit our group?”

• From The Decameron (1353)

  If I have well noted the course this day held by Pampinea, meseemeth I have found it alike praiseworthy and delectable; wherefore till such time as, for overlong continuance or other reason, it grow irksome to us, I judge it not to be changed. Order, then, being taken for [the continuance of] that which we have already begun to do, we will, arising hence, go awhile a-pleasuring, and whenas the sun shall be for going under, we will sup in the cool of the evening, and after sundry canzonets and other pastimes, we shall do well to betake ourselves to sleep. To-morrow, rising in the cool of the morning, we will on like wise go somewhither a-pleasuring, as shall be most agreeable to every one; and as we have done to-day, we will at the due hour come back to eat; after which we will dance and when we arise from sleep, as to-day we have done, we will return hither to our story-telling, wherein meseemeth a very great measure to consist alike of pleasance and of profit. Moreover, that which Pampinea had indeed no opportunity of doing, by reason of her late election to the governance, I purpose now to enter upon, to wit, to limit within some bound that whereof we are to tell and to declare it[74] to you beforehand, so each of you may have leisure to think of some goodly story to relate upon the theme proposed, the which, an it please you, shall be on this wise; namely, seeing that since the beginning of the world men have been and will be, until the end thereof, bandied about by various shifts of fortune, each shall be holden to tell OF THOSE WHO AFTER BEING BAFFLED BY DIVERS CHANCES HAVE WON AT LAST TO A JOYFUL ISSUE BEYOND THEIR HOPE." [Footnote 74: _i.e._ the terms of the limitation aforesaid.] Ladies and men alike all commended this ordinance and declared themselves ready to ensue it. Only Dioneo, the others all being silent, said, "Madam, as all the rest have said, so say I, to wit that the ordinance given by you is exceeding pleasant and commendable; but of especial favour I crave you a boon, which I would have confirmed to me for such time as our company shall endure, to wit, that I may not be constrained by this your law to tell a story upon the given theme, an it like me not, but shall be free to tell that which shall most please me. And that none may think I seek this favour as one who hath not stories, in hand, from this time forth I am content to be still the last to tell."

• From The Decameron (1353)

  If I have well noted the course this day held by Pampinea, meseemeth I have found it alike praiseworthy and delectable; wherefore till such time as, for overlong continuance or other reason, it grow irksome to us, I judge it not to be changed. Order, then, being taken for [the continuance of] that which we have already begun to do, we will, arising hence, go awhile a-pleasuring, and whenas the sun shall be for going under, we will sup in the cool of the evening, and after sundry canzonets and other pastimes, we shall do well to betake ourselves to sleep. To-morrow, rising in the cool of the morning, we will on like wise go somewhither a-pleasuring, as shall be most agreeable to every one; and as we have done to-day, we will at the due hour come back to eat; after which we will dance and when we arise from sleep, as to-day we have done, we will return hither to our story-telling, wherein meseemeth a very great measure to consist alike of pleasance and of profit. Moreover, that which Pampinea had indeed no opportunity of doing, by reason of her late election to the governance, I purpose now to enter upon, to wit, to limit within some bound that whereof we are to tell and to declare it[74] to you beforehand, so each of you may have leisure to think of some goodly story to relate upon the theme proposed, the which, an it please you, shall be on this wise; namely, seeing that since the beginning of the world men have been and will be, until the end thereof, bandied about by various shifts of fortune, each shall be holden to tell OF THOSE WHO AFTER BEING BAFFLED BY DIVERS CHANCES HAVE WON AT LAST TO A JOYFUL ISSUE BEYOND THEIR HOPE." [Footnote 74: _i.e._ the terms of the limitation aforesaid.] Ladies and men alike all commended this ordinance and declared themselves ready to ensue it. Only Dioneo, the others all being silent, said, "Madam, as all the rest have said, so say I, to wit that the ordinance given by you is exceeding pleasant and commendable; but of especial favour I crave you a boon, which I would have confirmed to me for such time as our company shall endure, to wit, that I may not be constrained by this your law to tell a story upon the given theme, an it like me not, but shall be free to tell that which shall most please me. And that none may think I seek this favour as one who hath not stories, in hand, from this time forth I am content to be still the last to tell."

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  To Rupert Pole, she wrote in her slanted handwriting. Looking forward to getting to know you better at Coral Sands. That was as much of an invitation as she was going to offer him. If he wanted to see her, he would figure it out. [image file=image_rsrc3R3.jpg] When Rupert left the Coral Sands Motel at 3 a.m., she was completely satiated. Don’t forget again, she told herself. Men want you most when you are most elusive. She would take one more night of pleasure with Rupert and then she would be gone—the bird who swoops and flies away. But where could she fly? She had no more book signings and she was not ready to be cooped up again with Hugo. Something new had emerged in her over the three weeks of her book tour: the satisfaction of true independence. She still had some of the advance money for her next novel in her purse, and she needed an adventure. She watched the white window curtain flutter as she lay in her motel room and imagined what her life could be like if Children of the Albatross somehow sold enough copies that Dutton would publish another of her novels. She would get another advance, and another, so that she would be financially independent. Then she really could be like the bird she imagined, circling her lover and flying off to freedom, a bird that did not have to migrate dutifully home to Hugo’s nest. CHAPTER 9 Acapulco, Mexico, 1947-1948 ANAÏS ANAÏS BOUGHT HERSELF A FLIGHT to Acapulco and, with the pleasure of Rupert’s embraces still on her skin, flew there alone. When she checked herself into the El Mirador Hotel, the setting sun tinted everything gold: the beach, the patio of her cabana, the skin of her bare arms and legs. At night she lay in a hammock, a warm breeze caressing her. Above, instead of pinpricks of stars, she saw huge, glowing orbs. Nature was so present that it annihilated her anxiety. It embraced her so powerfully that the sensuality of her surroundings was the only lover she needed. She was a woman drugged by beauty, and as the days and nights passed, she felt she never wanted to leave. She was at last free from guilt, from worry, from ambition, from memory, from Sabina’s hunger, from Lillian’s anxiety, from Stella’s fear. She was Djuna, her essential self, for once a woman alone experiencing joy.

• From Waking the Tiger: Healing Trauma (1997)

  These biological rhythms are fundamentally important in the transformation of trauma. It may be difficult at first to have the patience to allow them to come into consciousness. Their pace is much slower than the pace at which most of us live our lives. This is one of the reasons that trauma develops in the first place; we don’t give our natural biological rhythms the time they need to reach completion. In most cases, the cycles I’m talking about will run their course in a few minutes at most, but those few minutes are essential. The primary place you will notice these rhythms is in the ebb and flow of your sensations. A sensation will transform into something else (another sensation, image, or a feeling) as you notice all its characteristics and will do so at its own pac e - you can’t push the river. Becoming attuned to these rhythms and honoring them is part of this process. You now have the basics for using the felt sense. Think of it as a tool that can help you get to know yourself as a complex, biological and spiritual organism. The felt sense is simple and elegant. Yet, it is billions of times more sophisticated than the most powerful computers. It consists of awareness, sensation, subtlety, variety, and rhythm. If you are beginning to catch on to both its primitive and refined elements, you are right on track. I contend that the uniqueness of man cannot be seen in all its imposing grandeur unless it is set off against the background of those ancient historical characteristics which man still shares with animal life today. – Konrad Lorenz The lively world of our emotions, fears and responses is like a great forest with its fauna. We experience those feelings as though they were wild animals bolting through the foliage of our thick being, timidly peering out in alarm or slyly slinking and cunningly stalking, linking us to our unknown selve s ... — Paul Shepard 7. The Animal Experience The foundation for human physiology evolved with the earliest creatures that crawled out of the primordial ooze. As much as we would like to think otherwise, our connection to that beginning has remained fundamentally the same. At the level of the basic biological organism there isn’t any thinking or conceptualizing, there is only instinctual response to whatever presents itself. In the human organism, some of these impulses are obscure, others are all- powerful and compelling.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  He then helped her mount a palfrey, and led her back, honourably attended, to his house, where the nuptials were as splendid and as sumptuous, and the rejoicing as unrestrained, as if he had married the King of France’s daughter. Along with her new clothes, the young bride appeared to take on a new lease of life, and she seemed a different woman entirely. She was endowed, as we have said, with a fine figure and beautiful features, and lovely as she already was, she now acquired so confident, graceful and decorous a manner that she could have been taken for the daughter, not of the shepherd Giannùcole, but of some great nobleman, and consequently everyone who had known her before her marriage was filled with astonishment. But apart from this, she was so obedient to her husband, and so compliant to his wishes, that he thought himself the happiest and most contented man on earth. At the same time she was so gracious and benign towards her husband’s subjects, that each and every one of them was glad to honour her, and accorded her his unselfish devotion, praying for her happiness, prosperity, and greater glory. And whereas they had been wont to say that Gualtieri had shown some lack of discretion in taking this woman as his wife, they now regarded him as the wisest and most

• From The Decameron (1353)

  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. On seeing that the queen had risen, the honourable company did likewise; then all of them turned their attention, in the usual way, to whatever pleased them most. But when the cicadas’ song was no longer to be heard, everyone was called back, and they all sat down to supper. Of this they partook in a gay and festive spirit, and when the meal was over they proceeded to sing and make music. Emilia having begun to dance, Dioneo was called upon to sing them a song, and he promptly came out with: ‘Monna Aldruda, lift up your tail, for marvellous tidings I bring.’ 1 Whereupon all the ladies began to laugh, especially the queen, who ordered him to stop and sing them another. ‘My lady,’ said Dioneo, ‘if I had a drum, I’d sing you “Skirts up, Monna Lapa”, or “The grass beneath the privet grows”, or, if you preferred, “The waves of the sea are my torment”. But I haven’t a drum, so take your pick from among these others. Would you like “Out you come to wither away, like to the flower that blossoms in May”?’ ‘No,’ said the queen, ‘sing us something else.’ ‘In that case,’ said Dioneo, ‘I’ll sing you “Monna Simona, put wine in your cask. Not till October, sir, she said”.’ ‘Oh, confound you,’ said the queen, with a laugh, ‘if you’re going to sing, choose something nice. We don’t want to hear that one.’ ‘Come, my lady,’ said Dioneo, ‘don’t take offence. Which do you like best? I know a thousand of them, at least. Would you like “I never have enough of my little bit of stuff”, or “Ah!

• From The Decameron (1353)

  She said no more, but the answer she had given was greatly pleasing to the Queen, who was now persuaded that the girl was as wise as the King had affirmed. The King then summoned Lisa’s parents, and on learning that they approved of what he was proposing, he sent for a certain young man called Perdicone,7 who was gently bred but poor, and placing some rings in his hand, induced him to marry the girl without any show of reluctance. Nor was this all, for apart from the many precious jewels that he and the Queen presented to Lisa, the King forthwith appointed him lord of Cefalu and Caltabellotta,8 two excellent and very lucrative estates, saying: ‘These we grant you by way of dowry for your wife; and as for our intentions with regard to yourself, of these you will learn in due course.’ Then, turning to the girl, he said: ‘Now we desire to take the fruit of your love which is our due.’ And holding her head between his hands, he kissed her on the brow. Perdicone, along with Lisa’s father and mother, and Lisa herself, well content with what had happened, celebrated the wedding in truly magnificent style, and their marriage was a happy one. As a good many people affirm, the King was most scrupulous to observe his compact with the girl, for he always styled himself her loyal knight for as long as he lived, and never entered the lists without displaying the favour she had sent him. By deeds such as these, then, does a sovereign conquer the hearts of his subjects, furnish occasions to others for similar deeds, and acquire eternal renown. But among the rulers of today, there are few if any who train the bowstrings of their minds upon any such objective, most of them having been changed into pitiless tyrants. EIGHTH STORYSophronia, thinking she has married Gisippus, has really married Titus Quintus Fulvius, with whom she goes off to Rome, where Gisippus turns up in abject poverty. Believing that Titus has snubbed him, he confesses to a murder so that he will be put to death. But Titus recognizes him, and claims that he himself has done the murder, in order to secure Gisippus’ release. On perceiving this, the real murderer gives himself up, whereupon all three are released by Octavianus. Titus then bestows his sister upon Gisippus in marriage, and shares with him all he possesses. Pampinea having finished her tale, King Peter was extolled by all the ladies, but more especially by the one who was a Ghibelline; then Filomena began, at the king’s command, as follows:

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  Through high windows running the length of two walls, the sun filtered through tall pines and cypress. On the opposite wall, shadows of branches danced above the built-in desk where her portable Olivetti typewriter sat. Rupert had inserted a blank sheet of paper and rolled it into position for her. It was sweet. She’d told him about her meeting with an East Coast literary agent who’d promised he could sell her Paris diaries if Henry Miller were in them. Rupert wanted her to pursue the possibility, but Anaïs knew it was impossible because exposing her affair with Henry would humiliate Hugo and she couldn’t do that to him, especially in his current state. Nevertheless, she lowered herself into her secretarial chair and began pecking at the keys with two fingers, holding her elbows high to tone her upper arms. Possible plan for editing the diary: Begin in 1931 with Henry coming up the path to Louveciennes the first time I saw him, as in a novel. It should be a Bildungsroman of universal woman with myself as the protagonist and others as continuing characters. Movement of my internal story will be from captivity, neurosis, and fear—to expansion, growth, fulfillment. Must edit for a central theme, as in a literary work, and cut out repetitions. Rupert not a problem—we hadn’t met—but Hugo—LEAVE HUGO OUT ENTIRELY! She stared at the last sentence. It would be like murder to eliminate Hugo from her diary, as if she’d never shared her life with him, as if they were never married. But it could be the answer. The first volume of the diary could be all about Henry Miller, as the agent had advised, and she could edit out everything about Hugo. If readers didn’t even know a husband existed, he couldn’t be seen as a cuckold. “Don’t let me interrupt you,” Rupert whispered as he left her a cup of coffee. She worked in the little office until he got home from teaching. Then he brought her a martini and insisted she come watch the sunset from their deck. As night followed day, the way they lived, together and separately, molded to the contours of the floating glass house. Everything flowed in an easy rhythm, and she discovered that she was happy there, happier than she had ever been. She loved rushing outside at dawn to catch the finches sipping dew from the mulberry bushes, writing in her private little study, and swimming with Rupert in the phosphorescence of twilight.