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 Synanon Kid: Book One: A Memoir of Growing Up in the Synanon Cult

  sometimes I feel like you don’t always listen. When I expressed that we needed to leave, you continued to talk about the food you packed and I found that irritating.” “I hear that you were irritated...” and so it went. I returned my attention to my book and enjoyed the rest of the uneventful drive to LA. I read and gazed out the window in turn at dry hills with scrubby brown grass, interspersed with acres of mono crops and orchards, while munching on almonds, raisins, and my egg salad sandwich. At one point we passed a field of oil pumps. They reminded me of large chickens endlessly bobbing up and down in slow motion, pecking tirelessly at the barren earth beneath them. The mood was serene and the scenery hypnotic, until we actually arrived in LA and found ourselves in a tangle of traffic, cars weaving in and out of lanes, horns blaring. Ray had suddenly turned into a fugitive again, shoulders pushed up to his ears, head swiveling every other second over his shoulder as he maneuvered to get into the far-right lane. The Summit Lighthouse Community was located in Malibu Canyon, Calabasas, the property surrounded by the Santa Monica Mountains. At one time a seminary of Claretian novitiates, the old campus and sprawling Spanish Colonial Revival style building was now home to the New Age spiritualist group that studied the teachings of the ascended masters. There did not seem to be anyone around when we arrived. From the parking lot we set forth on a foot path lined with rose bushes and impatiens to the impressive elegant structure, which sat atop a grassy knoll. At the entrance we were greeted by an elderly man wearing slacks and a sweater vest of an indiscriminate color, his white hair carefully combed and parted at the side. My eyes needed a moment to adjust to the dim lighting when we stepped inside and onto a plush carpet. “We are having our meditation now. Please, would you care to join us?” he said with quiet enthusiasm. Theresa and Ray accepted the offer.

• From A Greek-English Lexicon (Liddell-Scott) (1957)

  τοῖς λόγοις Id. Euthyd. 303 Ὁ ;—esp. after having been angry, Hdt. 2. 181 (cf. mpadtys) ; ὁ θὴρ ὅδ᾽ ἡμῖν πρᾶος, of Bacchus, Eur. Bacch. 436: —so of a horse, gentle, ἀλλήλοις πραότεροι Xen. Cyr. 2.1, 29; of other animals, tame, ἰχθύων μεγάλων καὶ πραέων Id. An. 1. 4, 9, cf. Arist. H. A. I. 1; ζῷα... πραέα πρὸς τοὺς ἀνθρώπους Xen. Oec. 15, 9. 3. of actions, feelings, etc., mild, τιμωρίαι πραότεραι Plat. Legg. 867 Β; ἡδοναὶ mpadrepac Ib. 815 E; λόγοι, ἦθος, φύσις Id. ; τὰ mpaéa caresses, Xen. Eq. 9, 10; πραύτερα πάσχειν Plat. Crito 49 B. 11. mak- ing mild, taming, φάρμακον πραὖῦ τείνων ἀμφὶ γενύν, of a bridle, Pind. O. 13.121; mpoxwety αὐτὸν [τὸν ἵππον) ws πραοτάτοις σημείοις Xen. Eq. Q, 3- TIL. Adv. πράως (from πρᾶος), mildly, gently, πράως πείθειν τινί, φέρειν τι Plat. Rep. 589 C, Crito 43 Β; πράως ἔχειν πρός τι Id. Lys. 211 Ε; πράως λέγειν τὸ πάθος to speak lightly of it, Xen. An. I. 5, 14; mpdass διακεῖσθαι, opp. to ὀργίζεσθαι, Dem.) 5.713: 24; πράως οὐ πικρῶς Id. 315. 15 ;—Comp., πραότερον προδιδάσκειν, κολά- ζειν Plat. Gorg. 489 Ὁ, Phaedo 94 Ὁ; πραοτέρως ἔχειν τινί Joseph. A. J. 17.6, 4;—Sup., φέρειν .. ὧς πραότατα Plat. Rep. 387 E. 2. later form πραέως (from mais), Diod. 1. 36, Dicaearch., etc. :—cf. also πραύνως. πρᾶότηΞ, ητος, 7, mildness, gentleness, opp. to χαλεπότης Lys. τού. 15, Isocr. 38 C, Plat. Rep. 558 A, etc.; opp. to ἀγριότης, Id. Symp. 197 D; properly the contrary habit to passionateness (ὀργιλότης), Arist. Eth. N. 4. 5, Rhet. 2. 3, 1:—in pl., Isocr. 106 A :—apairys is a later form, C. 1. 2788, Eccl. πρᾶπίδες, ai, dat. mpamiow Pind. O. 2. 171, Ep. πραπίδεσσι —poét. word, 1. properly = φρένες, the midriff, diaphragm, ἔβαλ᾽ ἧπαρ ὑπὸ πραπίδων Il. 11. 579., 13. 412., 17. 349:—then, since this was deemed the seat of all mental powers and affections, 2. like φρένες, the wits, understanding, mind, ἰδυίῃσι πραπίδεσσιν 1]. 1. 608., 18. 380, etc.; περὶ μὲν πραπίδες, περὶ δ᾽ ἔστι νόημα Hes. Th. 656 :—as the seat of desire, the heart, ἀπὸ πραπίδων ἦλθ᾽ ἥμερος 1]. 24. 514; ἔσχεν ἄκοιτιν ἀραρυῖαν πραπίδεσσιν a wife he had after his own heart, Hes. Th. 608; πάσῃσιν ὀρέγεσθαι πραπίδεσσιν Emped. 430; πραπίδων πλοῦτος Ib. 300, 420; also in Pind. O. 10 (11). Io, P. 4. 500, and in lyr. passages of Trag., Aesch. Ag. 380, 802, Eur. Andr. 481 :—the sing. mpamis, ίδος, is rare, Pind. P. 2. 113, Fr. 228, Eur. Bacch. 428, 999 (lyr.), Epigr. Gr. 597. ampacetos, a, ov, f.1. for πράσινος, Poll. Το. 42. πρᾶσιά, Ion. 14, ἡ, α bed in a garden, garden-plot, Od. 7. 127., 24. 247, Theophr. H.P. 4. 4, 3, etc. ; ἀνθῶν πρασιαί Longus 4. 2; cf. ἄνδη- pov :—metaph., πρασιαὶ πρασιαΐ in companies or groups, Ev. Marc. 6.

• From Synanon Kid: Book One: A Memoir of Growing Up in the Synanon Cult

  In the end Horton is accosted by Mazie when she happens to come flying by one day and sees him getting so much attention for sitting on her egg in a circus that he never wanted to be in. I always felt satisfied at the justice of the egg finally cracking open to birth a baby elephant with wings. This Dr. Seuss book, told in a humorous way that I could understand and to which I could relate at age seven, provided parallels to my own experiences and feelings of parental abandonment, displacement and living as an exile in a foreign culture. One day an announcement was made, in typical Synanon fashion, that children seven and older were no longer allowed to check out picture books at the library and instead were required to borrow books with a minimum of one hundred pages. This rule felt like a disaster to me. I loved picture books. Books filled only with text were one step below newspapers, which at least had comic strips. It took only a few days for me to realize that the new rule was one of the best ever enforced by the demonstrators. As I combed through the middle-school readers, I found Ruth Chew’s quirky stories of children who discovered befuddled witches in their closets and under their beds. The cover image of two girls dancing gaily with a lion, a wreath of flowers around the cat’s neck, soon had me immersed in the adventures of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. I inhaled the whole Wizard of Oz series and the adventures of Johnny Gruelle’s Raggedy Ann and Andy. Raggedy Ann was something of a mystic. She and Raggedy Andy were forever going on adventures in forests where hotdogs grew on trees, lollypop bushes abounded and there were soda water springs if ever anyone became thirsty. Usually the characters would stumble upon a general store in the middle of nowhere, the proprietor only too happy to give away his merchandise, as the dolls had no money. The suspenseful part of the tale came when Raggedy Ann and Andy were captured by a wizard or witch who lived in the “deep, deep woods” and wanted to cut Ann open and steal her magical candy heart. Raggedy Ann’s compassion for her wicked captors knew no bounds. In one story she chided Raggedy Andy for purposely distracting a witch who was trying to remember the spell to render Raggedy Ann unconscious so she could then destroy the doll. These villains always burst into tears of frustration when their spells didn’t work, and Raggedy Ann would comfort them by telling them that all the magic they needed was right there inside of them and that if they would just clear the cobwebs of sorrow and selfishness from their minds, rays of goodness and kindliness would light up their souls.

• From Synanon Kid: Book One: A Memoir of Growing Up in the Synanon Cult

  Theresa set the bag of food on the seat between Sara and me. I opened my novel, but I had barely read a word when Theresa said, “I didn’t appreciate being rushed and talked to like that.” “Theresa , we had to get going. We’re running late as it is,” Ray said in his strained I-can’t-take-this-anymore voice. “Yes, but there are better ways to communicate that.” “Look, I don’t see how I could have communicated it any better. We needed to go.” “Also, I noticed that you are not really listening to me; you are only waiting to argue your point.” “What?” “I expressed to you that I didn’t really like the way that I was being treated, but you are not hearing what I am saying, Ray.” He sighed. “Ok, you didn’t like the way I spoke to you when I said it was time to go, right?” “Yes. It hurt my feelings when you cut me off. I was trying to tell you that I packed granola, because I know you like granola.” Ray did not respond right away as he took in what she said. When he spoke again, his tone had changed to the carefully modulated “I’m using my calm and reasonable voice now.” “So you are saying your feelings were hurt when you were talking about the granola because you felt I cut you off?” “Yes.” Sara rolled her eyes and made gagging motions with her fingers pointed at her open mouth. I grinned. “I hear what you are saying. You didn’t like the way I spoke to you when I said it was time to go. You felt it was abrupt.” “Yes.” “I understand and I will try to communicate better in the future, but sometimes I feel like you don’t always listen. When I expressed that we needed to leave, you continued to talk about the food you packed and I found that irritating.” “I hear that you were irritated...” and so it went. I returned my attention to my book and enjoyed the rest of the uneventful drive to LA. I read and gazed out the window in turn at dry hills with scrubby brown grass, interspersed with acres of mono crops and orchards, while munching on almonds, raisins, and my egg salad sandwich. At one point we passed a field of oil pumps. They reminded me of large chickens endlessly bobbing up and down in slow motion, pecking tirelessly at the barren earth beneath them. The mood was serene and the scenery hypnotic, until we actually arrived in LA and found ourselves in a tangle of traffic, cars weaving in and out of lanes, horns blaring. Ray had suddenly turned into a fugitive again, shoulders pushed up to his ears, head swiveling every other second over his shoulder as he maneuvered to get into the far-right lane. The Summit Lighthouse Community was located in Malibu Canyon, Calabasas, the property surrounded by the Santa Monica Mountains.

• From Lit: A Memoir (2009)

  She perches on the side of an easy chair and studies her puzzle. She says, I’m bad on coinage. Can you call your sister? I flip open my cell phone and punch redial. Lecia answers as she does when busy, like one of those cartoon tycoons—or the mother of five children, which she is. She says, Do you need something? Coin of Alexander the Great. How many letters? Eleven. Tetradrachm, she says, then spells it. Is that it? she adds, I’m covered up with work here. We trade love before I snap the phone shut. Got it, Mother says, and moves to the next clue while saying, I figured you or your sister would come along and fix it. The eleven-letter word? The ceiling, she says. I track down and cajole into action air-conditioner repairmen and electricians and plaster workers to glue back together Mother’s crayoned house. That’s it, I say when the bills are presented. We’re selling this cracker box. We chip in to buy Mother a condo in the same small town as Lecia’s office. We know Mother will rail about the change, but to prop up the rotting house would cost twice what it’s worth. I can envision driving up someday to find the walls caved in, Mother sitting amid mossy ruins with book in hand and birds nesting in her hair. You tell her it’s a fait accompli, Lecia says. She’ll raise holy hell. You make her take the hit. Tom and I’ll move her. If y’all do that, I’ll clean out the house. Once again Mother promises to be packed and ready, and once again Lecia finds her staring, coffee cup in midair, at three empty supermarket boxes, not a single plate newspapered. I need y’all to start me up, Mother says. Over a period of two days, Lecia and her husband pack and manhandle Mother’s possessions into a truck with the energy of newlyweds. They ferry it all two hours away, near Houston, into the corner unit we bought, staying till every picture is hung. Making up Mother’s new bed with plush linens, Lecia finds a Polaroid of the egg-yolk crayon house under Mother’s pillow. The old house is cleared of big pieces when I fly in to clean it out, which involves sorting through letters and paintings and stuff we may want to tenderly tuck away in tissue, though in truth, we partly long to bulldoze the place. I’m not without help. My high school friend Doonie, now the fence king of San Diego County, flies home to help. So does John Cleary—boy next door, first kiss. They show up on the steps as if dismounted from white chargers to shovel out the pigsty of a house.

• From Synanon Kid: Book One: A Memoir of Growing Up in the Synanon Cult

  food in it, her eyebrows pulled tightly together. Minutes later we followed Ray out of the apartment and to the car. Theresa set the bag of food on the seat between Sara and me. I opened my novel, but I had barely read a word when Theresa said, “I didn’t appreciate being rushed and talked to like that.” “Theresa, we had to get going. We’re running late as it is,” Ray said in his strained I-can’t-take-this-anymore voice. “Yes, but there are better ways to communicate that.” “Look, I don’t see how I could have communicated it any better. We needed to go.” “Also, I noticed that you are not really listening to me; you are only waiting to argue your point.” “What?” “I expressed to you that I didn’t really like the way that I was being treated, but you are not hearing what I am saying, Ray.” He sighed. “Ok, you didn’t like the way I spoke to you when I said it was time to go, right?” “Yes. It hurt my feelings when you cut me off. I was trying to tell you that I packed granola, because I know you like granola.” Ray did not respond right away as he took in what she said. When he spoke again, his tone had changed to the carefully modulated “I’m using my calm and reasonable voice now.” “So you are saying your feelings were hurt when you were talking about the granola because you felt I cut you off?” “Yes.” Sara rolled her eyes and made gagging motions with her fingers pointed at her open mouth. I grinned. “I hear what you are saying. You didn’t like the way I spoke to you when I said it was time to go. You felt it was abrupt.” “Yes.” “I understand and I will try to communicate better in the future, but

• From Lit: A Memoir (2009)

  His curls are damp around the edges from the heat. I heave him up and inhale an odor of wet earth in his hair, and he plants a dry kiss on my cheek. I let him down and greet Warren, balancing a coffee holder with two steaming cups and a crumpled pastry bag. His white shirt, rolled up at the wrists, shows the lineaments of his brown forearms. He holds the coffee to one side, bending so I can kiss him, and in his preoccupied expression is infinite gentleness. I place my lips on his square jaw and taste the living salt of him. In the kitchen a few minutes later, the first creamy sip of strong coffee gives me a distinct flood of pleasure. I remember a few similar instants when I first quit drinking. Nothing has changed, really. The uncertainty of my marriage is still there. But some equanimity exists, as if some level in my chest has ceased its endless teetering and found its balance point. In my life, I sometimes knew pleasure or excitement but rarely joy. Now a wide sky-span of quiet holds us. My head’s actually gone quiet. Some sluggishness is sloughed off. I am upright all of a sudden, inside a self I find quasi-acceptable, even as I’m incarcerated. Maybe this giant time-out has given me rest I sorely needed. Basically, some fist pounding on the center of my chest has unclasped itself. I’ve let go. I don’t know if Warren notices the difference, for—other than two sessions with a family social worker—we don’t see each other except with Dev, which speaks volumes about the space between us. (Were we both waiting for me to come home? Why didn’t this wall between us stay down, even when we both willed it? Because we didn’t trust each other as much as we trusted the distances we’d grown up in?) The morning after this sane visit, I lift my just-scrubbed face from the towel to meet my own gaze in the metal mirror, and I almost see a bold outline around myself, as if inked with magic marker. Alive, I am, a living, breathing Mary of myself. Hello, stranger, I actually say out loud. In occupational therapy, the other women in the ward—who’ve been vague holograms viewed through a scrim of tears when I checked in—have turned into full-fledged human units whose stories I begin to follow like daytime soaps. We’re supposed to be fashioning decorative wreaths, those circles of dried flowers and herbs that happy housewives hang in suburban kitchens from grosgrain ribbon. A grassy aroma rises around us as we work. I sit before a styrofoam ring, concentrating on the dumb task of wrapping florist’s tape on a green wire. Across the art table from me sits Pam, a strapping blond psychopath—a diagnosis she stays volubly pissed off about.

• From Lit: A Memoir (2009)

  When a guy honks and cuts me off and shrieks at me, calling me the c-word, my hand does not automatically flip him the bird—a small change, maybe, but for me profound. That spring-loaded trigger has eased off. The guy’s comment just flows past as if I’ve been lacquered over. Every so often I find myself praying for citizens like him, though in the past I might have petitioned for a machine gun. One morning at my desk, an essay I’ve had an idea about starts to unreel itself like a satin ribbon. Six hours later, I look up and realize I’ve been writing with ease. Some days, premenstrual self-loathing can transform me into a ring-tailed, horn-honking, door-slamming bitch. But those incidents now strike me as 100 percent my problem, regardless of provocation. And they bring me to my knees, for it’s on their back end that I sometimes fantasize about a slender glass of innocent champagne with some berry-colored crème de cassis making a little sunset in the flute’s bottom. Therapy rescued me in my twenties by taking me inward, leaching off pockets of poison in my head left over from the past. But the spiritual lens—even just the nightly gratitude list and going over each day’s actions—is starting to rewrite the story of my life in the present, and I begin to feel like somebody snatched out of the fire, salvaged, saved. 35I Accept a Position“I accept the universe” is reported to have been a favorite utterance of our New England transcendentalist, Margaret Fuller; and when someone repeated this phrase to Thomas Carlyle, his sardonic comment is said to have been: “Gad! she’d better!” —William James, The Varieties of Religious Experience Just when I’ve stopped craving a drink, a job offer from Syracuse floats down, with grad students and colleagues like Toby, plus a curriculum that’ll let me scavenge the library like in the golden days of grad school. But I can’t picture staying sober outside the circle I’ve conscribed—the women I hang out with, the house, coffee making for meetings, a meditation group. The further I get from that rainy night my car skidded sideways on my last drunk, the bleaker the outlook of toppling back into the tar I’ve just slithered out of. A beer has come to seem like a bullet in a gun’s chamber. But the occasional urge for icy oblivion can still tear through me with brute longing.

• From A Greek-English Lexicon (Liddell-Scott) (1957)

  συμφωνία, 7, concord or unison of sound, symphony, τὴν ἐν ὥδῃ appo- νίαν. ἣ δὴ σ. καλεῖται Plat. Crat. 405 D; ἡ yap ἁρμονία σ. ἐστί, σ. δὲ ὁμολογία τις Id. Symp. 187 B, cf. Rep. 420 Ε; λόγος ἀριθμῶν ἐν ὀξεῖ ἢ βαρεῖ Arist. An. Post. 2. 2, 3, cf. de An. 3. 2, 11 sq.3 Kpdois ἐστι λόγον ἐχόντων ἐναντίων πρὸς ἄλληλα Id. Probl. 19. 38. 2. properly of two sounds only, a musical concord, accord, such as the fourth, fifth and octave (v. sub διαπασῶν), Plat. Rep. 531 A, C, Arist. Probl. 19. 39, etc.; distinguished from mere ὁμοφωνία, Id. Pol. 2. 5, 14, Plut. 2. 389 D; cf. Dict. of Antiqq. p. 629. 3. the harmonious union of many voices or sounds, a concert, of τῶν σ. λόγοι, the Pythag. doctrine of the music of the spheres, Arist. Cael. 2. 9, 3. II. metaph. harmony, agreement, Plat. Legg. 689 D, Arist. Pol. 7. 15, 7: 6. τῷ λόγῳ Plat. Rep. 4o1D; ἔ. τῆς ψυχῆς ἑαυτῇ Id. Tim. 47 D; μίξας πάντα κατὰ συμφωνίαν, of ἃ cook, Damox. Svvt. 1. 54: cf. συμφωνέω τι. 111. prob. as name of a musical instr., Polyb. 26. Io, 5, cf. 31. 4, 8, Diod. Excerpt. p. 577; 80, symphonia in Prudent. seems to be the Egypt. sis- trum: v. 1514. Etym. 3. 22, Ducang. 5. v. symphonia. συμφωνιᾶκός, 7, dv, of or Sor symphony : pueri symphoniaci, singing boys, Οἷς. Mil, 21. II. ἢ πκή, a name for the ὑοσκύαμος, Apulei. Herb. 4. init.; so perhaps σύμφωνος, 7, Aretae. Cur. M. Diut. 2. 5, Galen. 2. 265.

• From A Greek-English Lexicon (Liddell-Scott) (1957)

  ὑπερενόομαι, Pass. to be completely one, Eccl. ὑπερεντελήξ, és, gen. cos, more than complete, Dio C. 47. 17. ὑπερέντευξις, ews, ἡ, intercession for another, Greg. Naz. ὑπερεντρύφάω, to be exceeding haughty, τινὶ to a person, Alciphro 1. 37; at a thing, Schol. Soph. Tr. 281. ὑπερεντυγχάνω, to intercede, ὑπέρ twos for one, Ep. Rom. 8. 26; τινός Clem. Al. 126. ὑπερεξάγω, Zo surpass, τινά Eus. H. E. το. 8,5; τινί in.., Ib. 8. 12, 5. ὑπερεξαίρω, to raise exceedingly: Pass., Hipp. 1133 Ὁ. II. to exalt or praise exceedingly, Eust. 1265. 25. ὑπερεξακισχίλιοι [1], αἱ, a, above 6000, Dem. 1375. 16, Joseph. A. J. 17. 2, 4. ὑπερεξανθέω, to blossom over-much or very much, Poll. 6. 54. ὑπερεξαπατάω, to deceive above measure, Plut. 2. 166 A; Xyland. ὕπαρ ἐξ. ὑπερεξάπτω, to kindle above measure, Acl. N. A. 9. 20: hence ὕπερ- ἔξαψις, ἡ, Io. Philop. ὑπερεξέχω, to stand out or forth exceedingly, Eccl. ὑπερεξηκοντέτηξ, es, above sixty years old, Ar. Eccl. 982. ὑπέρεξις, ews, 7, a property or quality in excess, Plat. Tim. 87 E. ὑπερεξισχύω, to be exceeding strong or mighty, Eccl. ὑπερεόρτιος, ον, above all festivals, Epiphan. ὑπερεπαινέω, to praise above measure, Twa Hadt. 1. 8, Ar. Eq. 680, Eccl. 186, Plat. Euthyd. 303 B, al. ὑπερεπαίρω, to exalt or exaggerate beyond measure, App. Pun. 42, Civ. I. 11, etc. :—tmepémapots, 7, excessive exaltation, Aquila V. T. -ὑπερεπείγω, to press hard, App. Civ. 2. 114, Dio C. 59. 21. ὑπερεπιθύμέω, to desire exceedingly, c. inf., Xen. Cyr. 4. 3, 21., 6.1, 5. ὑπερεπικλίνω [1], Zo lie on above, Iambl. Protr. p. 350 Kiessl. ὑπερεπιστήμων, ov, exceeding wise, A. B. 312. ὑπερεπιτᾶτικός, 7, dv, doubly intensive, of a in ἀάατος, Schol.Il. 14.271. ὑπερεπιτείνω, 20 strain too tight, Philostr. go, Artemid. 3. 59. ὑπερέπτα, v. ὑπερπέτομαι. ὑπ-ερέπτω, to eat away from below, cut away from under, of a stream, κονίην ὑπέρεπτε modoiw 1]. 21. 271. II. of mental suffering, to gnaw secretly, Q. Sm. 9. 377. ὑπερέραμαι, aor. -ηράσθην : Dep. :—to love beyond measure, Twos Ael. ΝΕ 2: ὑπερερεθίζω, to irritate exceedingly, Basil. ὑπερερρωμένως, Adv. very vigorously, Poll. 4. 89., 5. 125. ὑπερέρχομαι, Dep. with aor. 2 and pf. act.:—to pass over, cross, TAs πηγὰς τοῦ ποταμοῦ Xen. An. 4. 4,3; τὰ ὄρη Acl. N. A. 16, 21; τὴν θάλατταν Joseph. A. J. 3. 1, 5. II. to surpass, excel, ἀρεταῖς Pind. O. 13. 20. ὑπερεσθίω, fut. --ἔδομαι, to eat immoderately, Xen. Mem. 1. 2, 4. ὑπ-ερέσσω, to row just behind, Ael. N. A. 13. 2 (vulg. ὑπηρετέω). ὑπερέσχεθον, poét. aor. 2 of ὑπερέχω. ὑπέρευ, Adv. (εὖ) exceeding well, excellently, Plat. Theaet. 185 Ὁ, Xen. Hier. 6, 9, Dem. 228. 17 :---ὑπέρευγε, Luc. Paras. 9, Ael. V. H.9. 38. ὑπερευγενής, és, exceeding noble, Arist. Pol. 4. 11, 5. ὑπ-ερεύγομαι, Dep. to vomit up, ἄχνην és πόντον Ap. Rh. 3. 984. ὑπερευδαιμονέω, to be exceeding happy, Arist. Rhet. 2. 8, 3, Luc, Gall. 20 (v. 1. ὑπερδαίμονα εἶναι). ὑπερευδοκέομαι, Dep. to be well-pleased, Auctor ap. Suid.

• From Lit: A Memoir (2009)

  But, instead of my usual stab of concern or guilt, I see this as a single instant in his life amid a zillion other instants with attendant feelings—love, curiosity, desire. His curls are damp around the edges from the heat. I heave him up and inhale an odor of wet earth in his hair, and he plants a dry kiss on my cheek. I let him down and greet Warren, balancing a coffee holder with two steaming cups and a crumpled pastry bag. His white shirt, rolled up at the wrists, shows the lineaments of his brown forearms. He holds the coffee to one side, bending so I can kiss him, and in his preoccupied expression is infinite gentleness. I place my lips on his square jaw and taste the living salt of him. In the kitchen a few minutes later, the first creamy sip of strong coffee gives me a distinct flood of pleasure. I remember a few similar instants when I first quit drinking. Nothing has changed, really. The uncertainty of my marriage is still there. But some equanimity exists, as if some level in my chest has ceased its endless teetering and found its balance point. In my life, I sometimes knew pleasure or excitement but rarely joy. Now a wide sky-span of quiet holds us. My head’s actually gone quiet. Some sluggishness is sloughed off. I am upright all of a sudden, inside a self I find quasi-acceptable, even as I’m incarcerated. Maybe this giant time-out has given me rest I sorely needed. Basically, some fist pounding on the center of my chest has unclasped itself. I’ve let go. I don’t know if Warren notices the difference, for—other than two sessions with a family social worker—we don’t see each other except with Dev, which speaks volumes about the space between us. (Were we both waiting for me to come home? Why didn’t this wall between us stay down, even when we both willed it? Because we didn’t trust each other as much as we trusted the distances we’d grown up in?) The morning after this sane visit, I lift my just-scrubbed face from the towel to meet my own gaze in the metal mirror, and I almost see a bold outline around myself, as if inked with magic marker. Alive, I am, a living, breathing Mary of myself. Hello, stranger, I actually say out loud. In occupational therapy, the other women in the ward—who’ve been vague holograms viewed through a scrim of tears when I checked in—have turned into full-fledged human units whose stories I begin to follow like daytime soaps. We’re supposed to be fashioning decorative wreaths, those circles of dried flowers and herbs that happy housewives hang in suburban kitchens from grosgrain ribbon. A grassy aroma rises around us as we work. I sit before a styrofoam ring, concentrating on the dumb task of wrapping florist’s tape on a green wire.

• From Lit: A Memoir (2009)

  That’s a good starting point, the red pinpoint eye. If I squint inward at it and untether my head from the present, time stops. I close my eyes. From that center dot, I can dive into the red past again, reenter it. Blink, the old porch blooms around me, like a stage set sliding into place, every gray industrial board. Holding the monitor is my smooth thirty years’ hand. The cuticles are chewed raw, but there’s nary vein nor sun blotch. On the yellow fisherman’s coat over my pajamas, rain goes pat pat pat. Not one thing on the planet operates as I would have it, and only here can I plot my counterattacks. Problem one: The fevers my year-old son gets every few weeks can spike to 105°, which means waking the husband, a frantic trip to Children’s Hospital, a sleepless night in the waiting room. No reason for this, nothing wrong with his immune system or growth. They’ll give him the cherry-flavored goop that makes him shit his brains out, and the cough will ease, but his stomach will cramp, and on the nights he ingests that medicine, he’ll draw his stumpy legs to his chest in agony and ball up tight, then arch his back and scream, and though no one suggests this is my fault, my inability to stop it is my chief failure in the world. Problem two: If he’s sick, I’ll have to cancel classes so maybe the real professors who just hired me on a friend’s recommendation—despite my being too muttonheaded to sport a very relevant diploma—will fail to renew me next semester. I’ve published one slim volume of verse and some essays, but so has every other semiliterate writer in Cambridge. It’s like owning a herd of cattle in my home state of Texas, publishing a book is.

• From The Tides of Lust (1973)

  “I hear you went on well after I left.” Proctor took a cup from Benny. “I’m only interested in chaos as far as it can be contained in ritual. Even if it’s just the ritual of creation. Beyond that, reality bores me. Art is terribly limiting to certain of the sensibilities, I suppose. Oh, I’d make quite a devil.” Niger worried his bone joints to the boards. “Pleasure, suffering, boredom, death: following the path of least resistance, you are going to have a fair amount of all four. With effort, one can avoid much of the first. With craft, one can make the last three meaningful. But what connection can art make between these inevitables?” He shrugged. Niger left clacking his knucklebones to sniff Proctor’s boot, blotting the dust with his nose. He wheeled to the captain and tongued a wet ribbon across rayed ligaments and wormy veins. Satisfied with the comparison, he sat by his master and thumped the floor. “Who is that?” the captain asked, frowning at the chalkings. “Where?” The captain pointed. “That one there.” “Oh, yes. A young man I found in my studio when I got back last night. He’s just come into town; probably hanging around the wharf, looking for work on the boats. I’m going to hunt him up this afternoon and see if he’ll sit for a couple of hours of sketching. He’ll be able to use the buck or two.” The captain looked at the drawing for three breaths, then made a sound between laugh and bark. “I like your picture!” He swallowed the last of the coffee. “Come on, Niger. I go back to my boat now.” “You sure you don’t want another—” But the captain’s laughter filled the stairwell; and over it, the dog’s barking. On the Scorpion’s deck, Gunner sat on an overturned wire basket, rubbing the inner corner of one eye with two fingers. “How you feel this morning?” Gunner grinned sleepily. “Fine, Captain!” The captain unwound the rope from the dock cleat, leapt to the deck as the rope splashed down beside the hull, and hauled it, dripping, up. “Kirsten just put coffee on, Captain. You want—” “Get over there and throw the line!” Gunner leaped to the top of the locker to see which line, then landed on the deck in a running crouch. The rope, in his small hand, came spinning off its pile. The captain stepped over the high sill of the wheelhouse door. Gunner was still coiling when the starter motor began its double hum. The diesel thumped twice, and commenced low thunder. “Loose!” The boat pulled, taking the side swells. Niger barked from the top of the water tank, then jumped down and ran to the prow.

• From The Tides of Lust (1973)

  When he reached the wide street before the church, he heard a scrabbling behind. He turned as Niger’s paws struck his hip. “Hey, you black devil! Where have you been all night?” The dog bounced to the pavement, bounced back. “Good to see you, you son of a . . .” and pulled at the dog’s ears, shook the head by the lower jaw. Two women coming up the street watched, then stopped watching when the captain watched back. Niger ahead, the captain turned the corner, back to the wharf. As they passed Proctor’s second-floor studio, Niger growled. “What? You think we should let the old fool sleep out his Sunday? Well, I’ve found you. Back to the boat, boy!” Someone was whistling overhead. He looked up. The studio windows were opened and the music came through. It stopped for a few moments of conversation; the voices were Proctor’s and Benny’s. Then a face passing and pausing at the window: “Captain?” “Hey, Proctor!” And Niger barked. “You pull out today, Captain?” “Off in a few minutes.” “Come up for a moment, then.” Face gone and only this voice: “Benny, get the captain some coffee.” Back: “I want to show you something, Captain! Come up!” “I got to go on to the—” Gesturing: “Come on!” And Niger was running up and down the first four steps. “Coffee,” Benny said when the captain reached the top step. The captain took the mug in both hands and lowered his face. His lips heated over the black disk, marred with steam, his own reflection, and smelling of chicory. “Can I give the dog . . . ?” Niger was already leaping at the tin pan of scraps. “Sure.” Then the captain—“Down boy!”—looked again at the wall. Wrapping paper was taped along the molding. On a step ladder, Proctor drew with a lump of chalk. The paper rattled. “What do you think?” Proctor stepped down, left his chalk on the top rung. His fingers were stained terra cotta. “This is just a cartoon for the finished work, of course. But it suggests the composition and some of the immediate detail.” He came across the floor, dusting his fingers on his jeans. “Cartoon? It’s going to move like a movie?” Proctor laughed. “No. I just mean it’s full-sized. It’ll be transferred to a wall, then filled in with color. I’ve been working on it since before sun-up.” The captain frowned at the length of paper. Then smiled. “Ah, you can respond to it. Even at this stage. But you know all my models. Still, the problem remains aesthetic. I’m transported by the idea of using the material in such a way that all the relations remain Unreal.” “You missed the best part.” The captain laughed.

• From The Tides of Lust (1973)

  “I hear you went on well after I left.” Proctor took a cup from Benny. “I’m only interested in chaos as far as it can be contained in ritual. Even if it’s just the ritual of creation. Beyond that, reality bores me. Art is terribly limiting to certain of the sensibilities, I suppose. Oh, I’d make quite a devil.” Niger worried his bone joints to the boards. “Pleasure, suffering, boredom, death: following the path of least resistance, you are going to have a fair amount of all four. With effort, one can avoid much of the first. With craft, one can make the last three meaningful. But what connection can art make between these inevitables?” He shrugged. Niger left clacking his knucklebones to sniff Proctor’s boot, blotting the dust with his nose. He wheeled to the captain and tongued a wet ribbon across rayed ligaments and wormy veins. Satisfied with the comparison, he sat by his master and thumped the floor. “Who is that?” the captain asked, frowning at the chalkings. “Where?” The captain pointed. “That one there.” “Oh, yes. A young man I found in my studio when I got back last night. He’s just come into town; probably hanging around the wharf, looking for work on the boats. I’m going to hunt him up this afternoon and see if he’ll sit for a couple of hours of sketching. He’ll be able to use the buck or two.” The captain looked at the drawing for three breaths, then made a sound between laugh and bark. “I like your picture!” He swallowed the last of the coffee. “Come on, Niger. I go back to my boat now.” “You sure you don’t want another—” But the captain’s laughter filled the stairwell; and over it, the dog’s barking. On the Scorpion’s deck, Gunner sat on an overturned wire basket, rubbing the inner corner of one eye with two fingers. “How you feel this morning?” Gunner grinned sleepily. “Fine, Captain!” The captain unwound the rope from the dock cleat, leapt to the deck as the rope splashed down beside the hull, and hauled it, dripping, up. “Kirsten just put coffee on, Captain. You want—” “Get over there and throw the line!” Gunner leaped to the top of the locker to see which line, then landed on the deck in a running crouch. The rope, in his small hand, came spinning off its pile. The captain stepped over the high sill of the wheelhouse door. Gunner was still coiling when the starter motor began its double hum. The diesel thumped twice, and commenced low thunder. “Loose!” The boat pulled, taking the side swells. Niger barked from the top of the water tank, then jumped down and ran to the prow.

• From The Tides of Lust (1973)

  Niger left clacking his knucklebones to sniff Proctor’s boot, blotting the dust with his nose. He wheeled to the captain and tongued a wet ribbon across rayed ligaments and wormy veins. Satisfied with the comparison, he sat by his master and thumped the floor. “Who is that?” the captain asked, frowning at the chalkings. “Where?” The captain pointed. “That one there.” “Oh, yes. A young man I found in my studio when I got back last night. He’s just come into town; probably hanging around the wharf, looking for work on the boats. I’m going to hunt him up this afternoon and see if he’ll sit for a couple of hours of sketching. He’ll be able to use the buck or two.” The captain looked at the drawing for three breaths, then made a sound between laugh and bark. “I like your picture!” He swallowed the last of the coffee. “Come on, Niger. I go back to my boat now.” “You sure you don’t want another—” But the captain’s laughter filled the stairwell; and over it, the dog’s barking. On the Scorpion’s deck, Gunner sat on an overturned wire basket, rubbing the inner corner of one eye with two fingers. “How you feel this morning?” Gunner grinned sleepily. “Fine, Captain!” The captain unwound the rope from the dock cleat, leapt to the deck as the rope splashed down beside the hull, and hauled it, dripping, up. “Kirsten just put coffee on, Captain. You want—” “Get over there and throw the line!” Gunner leaped to the top of the locker to see which line, then landed on the deck in a running crouch. The rope, in his small hand, came spinning off its pile. The captain stepped over the high sill of the wheelhouse door. Gunner was still coiling when the starter motor began its double hum. The diesel thumped twice, and commenced low thunder. “Loose!” The boat pulled, taking the side swells. Niger barked from the top of the water tank, then jumped down and ran to the prow. Kirsten, swaying with the boat, hair braided with wind, carried a steaming cup into the wheelhouse and set the yellow mug in a cut-out on the plank behind the wheel. “Captain?” She leaned her back on the door frame, both hands on the far jamb. “Niger is barking at the dolphins.” “You sad to go, little girl?” She shrugged. “We go someplace better now?” He nodded, chuckling. “I put the light under the supper pot. You want breakfast soon?” He grinned at her. Gunner came up and sat on the sill at his sister’s feet. Spray sheeted above the rail. Both children turned their heads away. “Where are we going now?” Gunner asked. “I liked the big one, with the gun.”

• From The Tides of Lust (1973)

  We’ll have lunch when you come.” Proctor nodded, still regarding the portrait. “I don’t think it really suffered that much damage when it fell.” The woman said, “Perhaps when you come we can talk about financing this new mural you are so enthusiastic about?” “I hope so.” She laughed. “You have seen Nazi in the alley by the Hall mash his toes in dog shit, then stick his foot through the bars of the cellar window, to draw it out a minute later, clean?” Proctor looked back at her, surprised. He nodded. “I think as you put your brush in your pigments, then let the canvas lick them from the bristles, you indulge the same process.” Now Proctor laughed. “Go away,” he said. “I will see you up at your home late Monday afternoon.” And her laughter, terribly musical and winning, threaded his. “What about . . . ?” She glanced at Robby. Proctor nodded her to silence. “He’ll be all right.” “Then I’ll go.” Her hand came from beneath her cloak. “I must thank you for the spectacular entertainment you staged this evening.” He took her hand. “I must congratulate you on your spectacular performance.” The candlelight behind her set fire to the edges of her black hair. She whispered, “I think even she was pleased . . .” turned away, her cloak opening a moment to block the light. “Are you going back up to the Hill?” “No,” laughing, “I’m going to wander back down to the boats.” Pauses. “She went with them to the wharf. Goodnight, Jon.” “Goodnight.” She paused; “Take care.” Light again; and Robby found himself looking at her portrait against the wall, and wondering if she had really been. Proctor came over to him, kneeled by him “Try to sit up?” Robby pushed himself from the floor. He looked around the study. He frowned at the paintings. “Where am . . . ?” “My studio.” Proctor looked over his shoulder. “Benny, make some coffee for us.” And the sullen boy who had been sitting in the corner with his hands too deep in his pockets stood up and went to the stove. “Are you some kind of an artist?” Proctor nodded. “You paint this stuff?” “I also write poems, stories, music.” He sat back on his heels. “But the renaissance ideal comes to so little in a specialized world. Do you feel better? You looked fairly sick when I got here.” “Yeah, I guess . . .” The Puerto Rican boy brought coffee. They talk a while. Robby talks about where he’s come from, where he wants to go, the things he wants to do. It makes him feel better.

• From The Tides of Lust (1973)

  Niger left clacking his knucklebones to sniff Proctor’s boot, blotting the dust with his nose. He wheeled to the captain and tongued a wet ribbon across rayed ligaments and wormy veins. Satisfied with the comparison, he sat by his master and thumped the floor. “Who is that?” the captain asked, frowning at the chalkings. “Where?” The captain pointed. “That one there.” “Oh, yes. A young man I found in my studio when I got back last night. He’s just come into town; probably hanging around the wharf, looking for work on the boats. I’m going to hunt him up this afternoon and see if he’ll sit for a couple of hours of sketching. He’ll be able to use the buck or two.” The captain looked at the drawing for three breaths, then made a sound between laugh and bark. “I like your picture!” He swallowed the last of the coffee. “Come on, Niger. I go back to my boat now.” “You sure you don’t want another—” But the captain’s laughter filled the stairwell; and over it, the dog’s barking. On the Scorpion’s deck, Gunner sat on an overturned wire basket, rubbing the inner corner of one eye with two fingers. “How you feel this morning?” Gunner grinned sleepily. “Fine, Captain!” The captain unwound the rope from the dock cleat, leapt to the deck as the rope splashed down beside the hull, and hauled it, dripping, up. “Kirsten just put coffee on, Captain. You want—” “Get over there and throw the line!” Gunner leaped to the top of the locker to see which line, then landed on the deck in a running crouch. The rope, in his small hand, came spinning off its pile. The captain stepped over the high sill of the wheelhouse door. Gunner was still coiling when the starter motor began its double hum. The diesel thumped twice, and commenced low thunder. “Loose!” The boat pulled, taking the side swells. Niger barked from the top of the water tank, then jumped down and ran to the prow. Kirsten, swaying with the boat, hair braided with wind, carried a steaming cup into the wheelhouse and set the yellow mug in a cut-out on the plank behind the wheel. “Captain?” She leaned her back on the door frame, both hands on the far jamb. “Niger is barking at the dolphins.” “You sad to go, little girl?” She shrugged. “We go someplace better now?” He nodded, chuckling. “I put the light under the supper pot. You want breakfast soon?” He grinned at her. Gunner came up and sat on the sill at his sister’s feet. Spray sheeted above the rail. Both children turned their heads away. “Where are we going now?” Gunner asked. “I liked the big one, with the gun.”

• From The Tides of Lust (1973)

  “In your mouth, girl. Or let me leak it on your face . . .” She swallowed him, and felt the under tube swell down her tongue, retreat, swell again. In a geyser of black mud, a sudden eruption of white froth (Eruption . . .) and he pushed: thrust, and gout, thrust, thrust, gout. He held his breath, and let her fall against the bed’s edge. The black, bright length wrinkled, sagged. Her lips glistened. Her eyes were closed. He sat on the bed and began to take loud breaths. She moved between his legs to lay her head on his groin. He moved one finger over her forehead, wiping wet brass from beaded alabaster. She put her palm on it, pressed it on her cheek. “Why are you so tired,” he asked, “after so little?” She opened her eyes. “Gunner worried at me all morning, I say. Please, Captain. Let me go up and rest for a while. I’ll come back, maybe after only an hour or so.” “And leave me to make love to my fists? First the left, after that the right. What then? I can’t lap myself like Niger.” “You’ve had me every way! What else do you—” He squeezed her breast; Kirsten closed her eyes. “Oh, yes, I know the things you think of.” She looked up again. “Let me go upstairs. I’ll send Gunner down.” He frowned. “Finish with him. I’m too tired.” “He tired you out for me?” The captain tongued his lower lip. “Wake him up.” “I will. Right now.” She stood. She tried not to let him see her smile as she bent to pull her bunched shift down her hips. She shrugged into the sleeve, tried to cover her breast. The captain fingered himself. The torn cloth would not cover her any more. Suddenly Kirsten got a strange expression. She reached quickly, took his face in her hands and thrust her tongue way in his mouth. He licked it. But when he reached beneath her hem she pulled away. “I’ll send Gunner!” She turned and ran through the lines of sun. In the minute alone he thinks about the currents that have brought them here. He thinks about light, and suddenly he remembers the woman at the pane. He turns to look. “Captain?” Knuckling his eyes, sleepy Gunner came in. His hair, pale as his sister’s, pawed his neck, rioted at his forehead. “Come here.” The boy walked over the rug, paused. The captain patted the blanket, so the boy sat. He took the back of Gunner’s neck between thumb and forefinger. Shook him. Gunner grinned: there were twin acne spots left of his mouth. He touched the captain. “What am I gonna do with this elephant?” The captain moved his palm on the boy’s bony back. “You’ve done half of it already.” And shook again. “Hey, little mule. Kirsten says you tried to climb her back and break into her with your Johnny stick.”

• From The Tides of Lust (1973)

  I think they both have to do with one another and attention but I do not know. I know I want to tear it up. It is not I can’t come like he said a seventh time because I did and did again. But there can’t be any more magicians because I have learned how that works and am happier now listening to the water or maybe (The entry stops here.) First-light burned blue fog from the water. The captain stepped out on the cold deck. His breath, like blue fog, curled away. Wedged against the cabin by the water tank was a knot of sun-burned arms, sun-bleached hair, khaki pants with a knee showing, bare feet clutching each other: Gunner slept curled around himself, the fingers of one hand caging his face. The captain shook his head, smiling, went back in the cabin, came out again with the canvas coat, and put it over the boy. Gunner grunted, shifted, slept on. Through the galley window he saw Kirsten, sitting on a crate, elbows over the table’s storm lip, looking a a comic. With his knuckles, he made the screen chatter. She looked up, threw back her hair, and came to the door. “Captain . . . ?” A hand on each jamb, she leaned out. “Will you want breakfast now?” He swung to cuff her. She let go with one hand, dodged sideways, then looked out again. The slightest frown battled the slightest smile. Her smock was safety-pinned. “You haven’t been to bed yet?” She shrugged. “I’m not tired.” “Put the supper pot on the stove. I’ll heat it up when I get back. Drag your half-wit brother down into the cabin. He won’t be any good to me with pneumonia.” He stalked across the smeared deck, frowned at it once, but did not slow till he was on the dock. He scratched his stomach through the flaps of his shirt, dropped his hand under his belt, scratched again. At the end of the wharf, someone was hammering. The blows echoed like gongstrokes. After half a dozen shots, even that stopped. He walked across the packed dirt, across gravel, across paving—stepped up a curb; and entered the town. The barred frame on the cellar window of the Hall of Mirrors were open. The lock, hasp twisted back, lay on the ground. The captain pushed it with his toe; the insides jingled loosely. He grinned. When he reached the wide street before the church, he heard a scrabbling behind. He turned as Niger’s paws struck his hip. “Hey, you black devil! Where have you been all night?” The dog bounced to the pavement, bounced back. “Good to see you, you son of a . . .” and pulled at the dog’s ears, shook the head by the lower jaw. Two women coming up the street watched, then stopped watching when the captain watched back.