Contentment

Passages

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

Page 90 of 189 · 20 per page

• From Macho Sluts (1988)

  Georgia was putting a Dresden mug full of hot cappuccino on her desk. “Chocolate croissant or plain?” she asked. She was wearing a wheat-colored linen suit with a gold silk blouse. Her red hair was carefully styled. She walked a little more slowly than other women, as if she had to remind herself that you made your hips sway by putting one foot directly in front of the other. “Plain, I think,” Tyre said. “Stomach’s a little wonky this a.m. But this looks heavenly. How am I going to manage without you when you go to Denver for your last operation?” The large and capable hands put a tray with two hot croissants, a pot of marmalade, and a saucer stacked with pats of butter in front of her. “Don’t be silly, boss,” said the well-modulated, smoke-and-whisky voice. “Half the time it’s all I can do to just keep out of your way. Aspirin?” “Please.” A paper cup full of cold water and a foil packet of Bayer materialized next to the marmalade. “Eat something,” Georgia urged her. “If you can make it through the morning, the caterer delivered chicken fajitas for lunch, and I’ll mix you up a special batch of margaritas to go with it.” Tyre was already gutting the croissant and stuffing her face. After she pushed the tray away, it took her ten minutes to rip through an inch of paperwork on her desk. Georgia took notes. She could barely keep up. There was a grant from a lesbian mothers’ collective that wanted to establish a childcare center. “Only if they’re open at night and give our patrons a discount,” Tyre said. “But they’d better keep our name out of it or the fundamentalists will have a field day.” Georgia took it down in Mach 2 shorthand. There was a request from an anthropology professor who wanted to send a team of students in to do participant observation. “Only if they’ll take their clothes off and stay in the maze,” Tyre said. The Annie Kenney Coven that consecrated the Calyx at each equinox and solstice was having trouble finding hypo-allergenic incense and didn’t want to oppress women disabled by their sensitivity to fragrance. “I don’t know where the hell I’m going to find sneeze-proof incense,” Tyre said, “but tell them we’ll do some research on it. We haven’t had a lawsuit since they started cleaning up our aura on a quarterly basis, and I want them to keep on doing it. It’s good P.R., it’s a weird party, and it works. What more could you want?”

• From Wild (2012)

  The two white men were firefighters. The Latino man was a painter by passion but a carpenter by trade. His name was Francisco, though everyone called him Paco. He was the cousin of one of the white guys, visiting from Mexico City, though the three of them had grown up together on the same block in Sacramento, where the firefighters still lived. Paco had gone to visit his great-grandmother in Mexico ten years before, fallen in love with a Mexican woman while there, and stayed. The firefighters’ sons flitted past us, playing war while we sat around a fire ring filled with logs the men had yet to light, making intermittent shouts, gasps, and explosive sounds as they shot each other with plastic guns from behind the boulders. “You’ve got to be kidding me! You’ve got to be kidding me!” the firefighters took turns exclaiming when I explained to them what I was doing and showed them my battered feet with their eight remaining toenails. They asked me question after question while marveling and shaking their heads and plying me with another Hawaiian screwdriver and tortilla chips. “Women are the ones with the cojones,” said Paco as he made a bowl of guacamole. “We guys like to think we’re the ones, but we’re wrong.” His hair was like a snake down his back, a long thick ponytail bound in sections all the way down with plain rubber bands. After the fire was lit and after we had eaten the trout that one of them had caught in the lake and the stew made with venison from a deer one of them had shot last winter, it was only me and Paco sitting by the fire as the other men read to their sons in the tent. “You want to smoke a joint with me?” he asked as he took one from his shirt pocket. He lit it up, took a hit, and handed it to me. “So this is the Sierras, eh?” he said, looking out over the dark lake. “All that time growing up I never made it up here before.” “It’s the Range of Light,” I said, passing the joint back to him. “That’s what John Muir called it. I can see why. I’ve never seen light like I have out here. All the sunsets and sunrises against the mountains.” “You’re on a spirit walk, aren’t you?” Paco said, staring into the fire. “I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe you could call it that.”

• From Emotional Inheritance (2022)

  “At that point things actually got better,” she continues. “My grandmother was wonderful and my life with her was so much easier. I realized why my mother loved her so much. She supported me and understood how hard this new living situation was for me. She was caring and gave me everything I needed. Once a week we traveled together to visit my mother in the hospital, and once a month we visited my father. At some point, after my mother was discharged, I made the decision to stay and live with my grandmother permanently.” I listen to Lara and remember the way Hanna used to talk about her mother, defend her, describe how in spite of the fact that she believed her mother was responsible for the break in their family, she loved her and could never fully blame her. When Jed expected Hanna to cut her mother out of their life, she refused. Now Lara expresses the same feelings about her grandmother. Something has changed since her grandmother was our bad wolf. “My grandmother grew up in Russia with eight siblings,” Lara tells me. “She is the youngest and the only one who is educated. She values education and encouraged me to go to graduate school. In fact, she’ll be paying for my doctoral degree,” Lara says and then smiles shyly. “I decided to study psychology. I was just accepted into a PhD program.” Then she starts giggling. “Maybe I want to be you. I mean, as a child, therapy was the only time I didn’t feel alone. I felt that you really wanted to know me.” Lara takes a deep breath. She looks tired and I see how hard she tries to be likable, easygoing, not depressed like her mother. She was always tuned in to others, making sure she was not a burden on them and instead taking care of those around her. “You said you needed my help.” My voice sounds softer than usual as I ask, “Tell me, what brings you here today, Lara?” Lara stares out the window for a long time. “Your old office used to have big windows looking at Grace Church, I remember,” she says, still gazing outside. “There was a coffee place across the street and I used to sit there with my father every week after therapy. He would order fresh mint tea and a croissant, and I would get a baguette and use all the chocolate spreads that were on the table. Every week we would sit there silently, eating and not looking at each other. He never asked me how therapy was. Maybe he was too afraid to know. And I didn’t think about anything else but the sweet spreads that my mother didn’t like me to eat and that made the end of a session less bitter. I never liked separations.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  An orphan from the days of her earliest childhood, Mary had lived with a married cousin in the wilds of Wales; an unwanted member of a none too prosperous household. She had little educa- 326 THE WELL OF LONELINESS tion beyond that obtained from a small private school in a neigh- bouring village. She knew nothing of life or of men and women; and even less did she know of herself, of her ardent, courageous, impulsive nature. Thanks to the fact that her cousin was a doctor, forced to motor over a widely spread practice, she had learnt to drive and look after his car by filling the post of an unpaid chauf feur — she was, in her small way, a good mechanic. But the war had made her much less contented with her narrow life, and al- though at its outbreak Mary had been not quite eighteen, she had felt a great longing to be independent, in which she had met with no opposition. However, a Welsh village is no field for endeavour, and thus nothing had happened until by a fluke she had suddenly heard of the Breakspeare Unit via the local parson, an old friend of its founder — he himself had written to recommend Mary. And so, straight from the quiet seclusion of Wales, this girl had man- aged the complicated journey that had finally got her over to France, then across a war-ravaged, dislocated country. Mary was neither so frail nor so timid as Mrs. Breakspeare had thought her. Stephen had felt rather bored just at first at the prospect of teaching the new member her duties, but after a while it came to pass that she missed the girl when she was not with her. And after a while she would find herself observing the way Mary’s hair grew, low on the forehead, the wide setting of her slightly oblique grey eyes, the abrupt sweep back of their heavy lashes; and these things would move Stephen, so that she must touch the girl’s hair for a moment with her fingers. Fate was throwing them con- tinually together, in moments of rest as in moments of danger; they could not have escaped this even had they wished to, and indeed they did not wish to escape it. They were pawns in the ruthless and complicated game of existence, moved hither and thither on the board by an unseen hand, yet moved side by side, so that they grew to expect each other. ‘Mary, are you there? ’ A superfluous question ~ the reply would be always the same. ‘Pm here, Stephen.’ THE WrELL OF LONELINESS 327 Sometimes Mary would talk of her plans for the future while Stephen listened, smiling as she did so. ‘PII go into an office, I want to be free.’ ‘ You're so little, you’d get mislaid in an office.’ ‘Tm five foot five! ’ * Are you really, Mary? You feel little, somehow.’

• From Macho Sluts (1988)

  The network of women who worked for the Calyx was alarmingly incestuous. It was one of the reasons she had subtly encouraged Michael to take Sara. Having another groupie to pass around would ease the sexual pressure her help put on one another. It would also keep Sara from entertaining any pretentious thoughts about her future. The indirect lighting and soft carpets of her office were soothing. So was the music—Phillip Glass. Tyre took off her sunglasses and slid them into her coat pocket. As she hung up her mink, the Siamese cat, Nineveh, brought her kittens, Sodom and Gomorrah, over for review. Tyre crouched and held out a finger. Each of the kittens gravely batted at and chewed on it. Then Nineveh took them away to be held down on one the couches in the reception area and scrubbed. Georgia was putting a Dresden mug full of hot cappuccino on her desk. “Chocolate croissant or plain?” she asked. She was wearing a wheat-colored linen suit with a gold silk blouse. Her red hair was carefully styled. She walked a little more slowly than other women, as if she had to remind herself that you made your hips sway by putting one foot directly in front of the other. “Plain, I think,” Tyre said. “Stomach’s a little wonky this a.m. But this looks heavenly. How am I going to manage without you when you go to Denver for your last operation?” The large and capable hands put a tray with two hot croissants, a pot of marmalade, and a saucer stacked with pats of butter in front of her. “Don’t be silly, boss,” said the well-modulated, smoke-and-whisky voice. “Half the time it’s all I can do to just keep out of your way. Aspirin?” “Please.” A paper cup full of cold water and a foil packet of Bayer materialized next to the marmalade. “Eat something,” Georgia urged her. “If you can make it through the morning, the caterer delivered chicken fajitas for lunch, and I’ll mix you up a special batch of margaritas to go with it.” Tyre was already gutting the croissant and stuffing her face. After she pushed the tray away, it took her ten minutes to rip through an inch of paperwork on her desk. Georgia took notes. She could barely keep up.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  The merry company, being thus dismissed by the new queen, went straying with slow steps, young men and fair ladies together, about a garden, devising blithely and diverting themselves with weaving goodly garlands of various leaves and carolling amorously. After they had abidden there such time as had been appointed them of the queen, they returned to the house, where they found that Parmeno had made a diligent beginning with his office, for that, entering a saloon on the ground floor, they saw there the tables laid with the whitest of cloths and beakers that seemed of silver and everything covered with the flowers of the broom; whereupon, having washed their hands, they all, by command of the queen, seated themselves according to Parmeno's ordinance. Then came viands delicately drest and choicest wines were proffered and the three serving-men, without more, quietly tended the tables. All, being gladdened by these things, for that they were fair and orderly done, ate joyously and with store of merry talk, and the tables being cleared away,[25] the queen bade bring instruments of music, for that all the ladies knew how to dance, as also the young men, and some of them could both play and sing excellent well. Accordingly, by her commandment, Dioneo took a lute and Fiammetta a viol and began softly to sound a dance; whereupon the queen and the other ladies, together with the other two young men, having sent the serving-men to eat, struck up a round and began with a slow pace to dance a brawl; which ended, they fell to singing quaint and merry ditties. On this wise they abode till it seemed to the queen time to go to sleep,[26] and she accordingly dismissed them all; whereupon the young men retired to their chambers, which were withdrawn from the ladies' lodging, and finding them with the beds well made and as full of flowers as the saloon, put off their clothes and betook themselves to rest, whilst the ladies, on their part, did likewise. [Footnote 25: The table of Boccaccio's time was a mere board upon trestles, which when not in actual use, was stowed away, for room's sake, against the wall.] [Footnote 26: _i.e._ to take the siesta or midday nap common in hot countries.]

• From Macho Sluts (1988)

  Kay had somehow scrounged up a beach towel from the trick linen to wrap EZ in. Alex and Chris were performing a similar service with smaller towels for Roxanne, who wore an idiotic smile and somehow still had Crisco in her ears. Tyre went to fetch robes for both of them. When she brought them back to the bathroom, Kay caught at her sleeve and said under her breath, “Look, I really planned to stick around for the finale, but I have to finish this now that it’s started. We’ll just slip out while everybody takes a break. I got to get this boychick off to myself and talk some sense into her while she’s listening to me. Hey, we could have peace in our time.” “Don’t be silly,” Tyre said. “Do you know what time it is?” She thought, by now the place upstairs is probably almost empty. I could check with Simba and have her give them the key to one of the smaller dungeons. But then I’ll have to check on them before I leave, and see if they need a lift home. Or I guess the cleaning crews can let them out tomorrow. What a drag. “Kay,” EZ said. They could barely hear her. “Please, don’t make us go. I won’t be dis—disruptive no more. Lemme see Roxanne get her rings. I’d never forgive myself if I fucked this up for you. We can talk tomorrow. Or you can talk and I can listen, anyways. Please?” “Well … ” “Put a collar on her and see if she means it,” Tyre advised. “If she can bounce back this fast after the lesson you taught her, I don’t think there’s any hope. All of us would really regret it if you didn’t stay.” Out at the bar, Joy was checking the spines of tape-boxes. “You and I think it be time for Brian Eno now,” she said. “Well, well. They got Jarre doin’ Oxygène. A golden oldie. Outer space is here to stay, children.” The leftover sushi disappeared in minutes. So did two pots of coffee and a fifth of cognac. Kay was up on the stool at the far end of the bar, drumming her spurs against its legs. She plied a little pair of scissors, manicuring the biggest bud sensemilla Tyre had ever seen. “This one got horny enough to drown itself,” she grinned. “Figure this is just what we need to float through the final frontier.” EZ sat peacefully at her feet, naked except for a collar and a terry-cloth bathrobe. Kay lit up her pipe, then EZ carried it to everybody who wanted a hit and held a lit match over the dope for them while they toked up. “It takes about two hits of this shit to get real high,” Kay said, sucking smoke through her teeth. “That’s high as in Tibet.”

• From The Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  if the journal had never been started, but to stop it after it had once been launched would have been both a loss and a disgrace. So I kept on pouring out my money, until ultimately I was practically sinking all my savings in it. I remember a time when I had to remit £ 75 each month. But after all these years I feel that the journal has served the community well. It was never intended to be a commercial concern. So long as it was under my control, the changes in the journal were indicative of changes in my life. Indian Opinion in those days, like Young India and Navajivan today, was a mirror of part of my life. Week after week I poured out my soul in its columns, and expounded the principles and practice of Satyagraha as I understood it. During ten years, that is, until 1914, excepting the intervals of my enforced rest in prison, there was hardly an issue of Indian Opinion without an article from me. I cannot recall a word in those articles set down without thought or deliberation, or a word of conscious exaggeration, or anything merely to please. Indeed the journal became for me a training in self-restraint, and for friends a medium through which to keep in touch with my thoughts. The critic found very little to which he could object. In fact the tone of Indian Opinion compelled the critic to put a curb on his own pen. Satyagraha would probably have been impossible without Indian Opinion. The readers looked forward to it for a trustworthy account of the Satyagraha campaign as also of the real condition of Indians in South Africa. For me it became a means for the study of human nature in all its casts and shades, as I always aimed at establishing an intimate and clean bond between the editor and the readers. I was inundated with letters containing the outpourings of my correspondents’ hearts. They were friendly, critical or bitter, according to the temper of the writer. It was a fine eduction for me to study, digest and answer all this correspondence. It was as though the community thought audibly through this correspondence with me. It made me throughly understand the responsibility of a journalist, and the hold I secured in this way

• From The Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  and pulseless diet or of the other consequent changes in her food, whether as a result of my strict vigilance in exacting observance of the other rules of life, or as an effect of the mental exhilaration produced by the incident, and if so to what extent, I cannot say. But she rallied quickly, haemorrhage completely stopped, and I added somewhat to my reputation as a quack. As for me, I was all the better for the new denials. I never craved for the things I had left, the year sped away, and I found the senses to be more subdued than ever. The experiment stimulated the inclination for self- restraint, and I returned to India. Only once I happened to take both the articles whilst I was in London in 1914. But of that occasion, and as to how I resumed both, I shall speak in a later chapter. I have tried the experiment of a saltles and pulseless diet on many of my co- workers, and with good results in South Africa. Medically there may be two opinions as to the value of this diet, but morally I have no doubt that all self- denial is good for the soul. The diet of a man of self-restraint must be different from that of a man of pleasure, just as their ways of life must be different. Aspirants after brahmacharya often defeat their own end by adopting courses suited to a life of pleasure. 109.

• From The Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  make use of these carpenters? And we may have a whole night of work. I think this device is still open to us.’ ‘I dare not wake up the carpenters. And our men are really too tired,’ said West. ‘Well, that’s for me to negotiate,’ said I. ‘Then it is possible that we may get through the work,’ West replied. I woke up the carpenters and requested their co- operation. They needed no pressure. They said, ‘If we cannot be called upon in an emergency, what use are we? You rest yourselves and we will work the wheel. For us it is easy work.’ Our own men were of course ready. West was greatly delighted and started singing a hymn as we set to work. I partnered the carpenters, all the rest joined turn by turn, and thus we went on until 7 a.m. There was still a good deal to do. I therefore suggested to West that the engineer might now be asked to get up and try again to start the engine, so that if we succeeded we might finish in time. West woke him up, and he immediately went into the engine room. And lo and behold! the engine worked almost as soon as he touched it. The whole press rang with peals of joy. ‘How can this be? How is it that all our labours last night were of no avail, and this morning it has been set going as though there were nothing wrong with it?’ I enquired. ‘It is difficult to say,’ said West or the engineer, I forget which. ‘Machines also sometimes seem to behave as though they required rest like us.’ For me the failure of the engine had come as a test for us all, and its working in the nick of time as the fruit of our honest and earnest labours. The copies were despatched in time, and everyone was happy. This initial insistence ensured the regularity of the paper, and created an atmosphere of self- reliance in Phoenix. There came a time we deliberately gave up the use of the engine and worked with hand-power only. Those were, to my mind, the days of the highest moral uplift for Phoenix. 100.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  I wish that I had find you out sooner—however, your muscles are young still, pliant.’ And one day he said: ‘Let me feel the muscles,’ then proceeded to pass his hand down her thighs and across her strong loins: ‘Tiens, tiens!’ he murmured. After this he would sometimes look at her gravely with a puzzled expression; but she did not resent him, nor his rudeness, nor his technical interest in her muscles. Indeed, she liked the cross little man with his bristling black beard and his peppery temper, and when he remarked à propos of nothing: ‘We are all great imbeciles about nature. We make our own rules and call them la nature; we say she do this, she do that—imbeciles! She do what she please and then make the long nose.’ Stephen felt neither shy nor resentful. These lessons were a great relaxation from work, and thanks to them her health grew much better. Her body, accustomed to severe exercise, had resented the sedentary life in London. Now, however, she began to take care of her health, walking for a couple of hours in the Bois every day, or exploring the tall, narrow streets that lay near her home in the Quarter. The sky would look bright at the end of such streets by contrast, as though it were seen through a tunnel. Sometimes she would stand gazing into the shops of the wider and more prosperous Rue des Saints Pères; the old furniture shops; the crucifix shop with its dozens of crucified Christs in the window—so many crucified ivory Christs! She would think that one must surely exist for every sin committed in Paris. Or perhaps she would make her way over the river, crossing by the Pont des Arts. And one morning, arrived at the Rue des Petits Champs, what must she suddenly do but discover the Passage Choiseul, by just stepping inside for shelter, because it had started raining. Oh, the lure of the Passage Choiseul, the queer, rather gawky attraction of it. Surely the most hideous place in all Paris, with its roof of stark wooden ribs and glass panes—the roof that looks like the vertebral column of some prehistoric monster. The chocolate smell of the patisserie—the big one where people go who have money. The humbler, student smell of Lavrut, where one’s grey rubber bands are sold by the gramme and are known as: ‘Bracelets de caoutchouc.’ Where one buys première qualité blotting paper of a deep ruddy tint and the stiffness of cardboard, and thin but inspiring manuscript books bound in black, with mottled, shiny blue borders.

• From The Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  fair study of book-keeping. My capacity for translation was improved by having to translate the correspondence, which was for the most part in Gujarati. Although, as I have said before, I took a keen interest in religious communion and in public work and always gave some of my time to them, they were not then my primary interest. The preparation of the case was my primary interest. Reading of law and looking up law cases, when necessary, had always a prior claim on my time. As a result, I acquired such a grasp of the facts of the case as perhaps was not possessed even by the parties themselves, inasmuch as I had with me the papers of both the parties. I recalled the late Mr. Pincutt’s advice – facts are three- fourths of the law. At a later date it was amply borne out by that famous barrister of South Africa, the late Mr. Leonard. In a certain case in my charge I saw that, though justice was on the side of my client, the law seemed to be against him. In despair I approached Mr. Leonard for help. He also felt that the facts of the case were very strong. He exclaimed, ‘Gandhi, I have learnt one thing, and it is this, that if we take care of the facts of a case, the law will take care of itself. Let us dive deeper into the facts of this case.’ With these words he asked me to study the case further and then see him again. On a re- examination of the facts I saw them in an entirely new light, and I also hit upon an old South African case bearing on the point. I was delighted and went to Mr. Leonard and told him everything. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘we shall win the case. Only we must bear in mind which of the judges takes it.’ When I was making preparation for Dada Abdulla’s case, I had not fully realized this paramount importance of facts. Facts mean truth, and once we adhere to truth, the law comes to our aid naturally. I saw that the facts of Dada Abdulla’s case made it very strong indeed, and that the law was bound to be persisted in, would ruin the plaintiff and the defendant, who were relatives and both belonged

• From The Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  deep study of English, but two may be said to have made fairly good progress in about eight months. Two learnt enough to keep accounts and write ordinary business letters. The barber’s ambition was confined to acquiring just enough English for dealing with his customers. As a result of their studies, two of the pupils were equipped for making a fair income. I was satisfied with the result of the meeting. It was decided to hold such meetings, as far as I remember, once a week or, may be, once a month. These were held more or less regularly, and on these occasions there was a free exchange of ideas. The result was that there was now in Pretoria no Indian I did not know, or whose condition I was not acquainted with. This prompted me in turn to make the acquaintance of the British Agent in Pretoria, Mr. Jacobus de Wet. He had sympathy for the Indians, but he had very little influence. However, he agreed to help us as best he could, and invited me to meet him whenever I wished. I now communicated with the railway authorities and told them that, even under their own regulations, the disabilities about travelling under which the Indians laboured could not be justified. I got a letter in reply to the effect that first and second class tickets would be issued to Indians who were properly dressed. This was far from giving adequate relief, as it rested with the Station Master to decide who was ‘properly dressed.’ The British Agent showed me some papers dealing with Indian affairs. Tyeb Sheth had also given me similar papers. I learnt from them how cruelly the Indians were hounded out from the Orange Free State. In short, my stay in Pretoria enabled me to make a deep study of the social, economic and political condition of the Indians in the Transvaal and the Orange Free State. I had no idea that this study was to be of invaluable service to me in the future. For I had thought of returning home by the end of the year, or even earlier, if the case was finished before the year was out. But God disposed otherwise. 40.

• From Macho Sluts (1988)

  “For some reason the security guards didn’t seem to be too fond of me, and I didn’t think any of them would do me the favor of taking you a personal message.” “Oh. Of course not. Damn. Well, I guess I’ll see you for sure anyway the first weekend of—” “Next month. Yeah. Story of my life. But be still my heart, it should be a good one. Get lotsa beauty sleep.” “I promise.” Perhaps it was the guided tours of the dungeons, which kept turning into auditions or dress rehearsals for Alex’s scene, which made it easy for Tyre to keep her promise. She slept very well during the interregnum. In fact, she got so used to standing around in the dungeon, wearing full leather, waiting for someone to show up, that she barely registered the fact that this was it, the big night, the main event, until Alex strode in—an immaculate black knight in her racing jacket, codpiece pants, and engineer boots—counted heads, and said, “Who the fuck is missing? What did they do, call in sick?” Kay and EZ came swaggering in right behind her. They were dressed the same way they had been when Tyre tracked them down on Folsom Street. EZ wore black-leather chaps over 501s that had faded and faded until they were nearly white. Her motorcycle jacket was off the rack, no customization, and she wore a plain white T-shirt underneath it. Her black hair was very short, spiked out, and had platinum stripes bleached into it above and just behind her ears. She was thin and butch enough to look like a young, very cute, boy-punk. This made her a perfect piece of bait for Kay to throw into the shark-bars South of Market. Kay was a little older and more feminine. The blue jeans under her chaps were a bit newer than EZ’s, a pale blue instead of white. She had put a navy-blue rinse over her long, dark hair, and it showed in certain angles of the light. She wore a lot of tooled silver rings, hippie-looking things, which she loved to take off one at a time while a prospective victim stared at her hands in dread and fascination. Her jacket was virtually identical to EZ’s, but she had tied a red bandana around her left upper arm, whereas EZ wore a chain dog collar threaded under her left epaulet. Her T-shirt was made out of black ciré, and her boots had high heels instead of a plain cowboy walking heel. She made up for that by wearing Mexican spurs with long rowels. “Sorry we’re late,” EZ snickered. “We hadda see a man about a horse.” Alex kicked the door closed behind them. Her countenance was stormy. Of course, the telephone picked that moment to ring. Tyre intercepted Alex, who was headed for Kay and EZ with her hand upraised, and dragged her over to the phone. She kept an arm around her while she talked.

• From Lady Chatterley's Lover (1928)

  Clifford said something to her about the Racine. She caught the sense after the words had gone. "Yes! Yes!" she said, looking up at him. "It _is_ splendid." Again he was frightened at the deep blue blaze of her eyes, and of her soft stillness, sitting there. She had never been so utterly soft and still. She fascinated him helplessly, as if some perfume about her intoxicated him. So he went on helplessly with his reading, and the throaty sound of the French was like the wind in the chimneys to her. Of the Racine she heard not one syllable. She was gone in her own soft rapture, like a forest soughing with the dim, glad moan of spring, moving into bud. She could feel in the same world with her the man, the nameless man, moving on beautiful feet, beautiful in the phallic mystery. And in herself, in all her veins, she felt him and his child. His child was in all her veins, like a twilight. "For hands she hath none, nor eyes, nor feet, nor golden Treasure of hair...." She was like a forest, like the dark interlacing of the oak-wood, humming inaudibly with myriad unfolding buds. Meanwhile the birds of desire were asleep in the vast interlaced intricacy of her body. But Clifford's voice went on, clapping and gurgling with unusual sounds. How extraordinary it was! How extraordinary he was, bent there over the book, queer and rapacious and civilised, with broad shoulders and no real legs! What a strange creature, with the sharp, cold inflexible will of some bird, and no warmth, no warmth at all! One of those creatures of the afterwards, that have no soul, but an extra-alert will, cold will. She shuddered a little, afraid of him. But then, the soft warm flame of life was stronger than he, and the real things were hidden from him. The reading finished. She was startled. She looked up, and was more startled still to see Clifford watching her with pale, uncanny eyes, like hate. "Thank you _so_ much! You do read Racine beautifully!" she said softly. "Almost as beautifully as you listen to him," he said cruelly. "What are you making?" he asked. "I'm making a child's dress, for Mrs. Flint's baby." He turned away. A child! A child! That was all her obsession. "After all," he said, in a declamatory voice, "one gets all one wants out of Racine. Emotions that are ordered and given shape are more important than disorderly emotions." She watched him with wide, vague, veiled eyes. "Yes, I'm sure they are," she said. "The modern world has only vulgarised emotion by letting it loose. What we need is classic control." "Yes," she said slowly, thinking of himself listening with vacant face to the emotional idiocy of the radio. "People pretend to have emotions, and they really feel nothing. I suppose that is being romantic." "Exactly!" he said.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  None[27] had not long sounded when the queen, arising, made all the other ladies arise, and on like wise the three young men, alleging overmuch sleep to be harmful by day; and so they betook themselves to a little meadow, where the grass grew green and high nor there had the sun power on any side. There, feeling the waftings of a gentle breeze, they all, as their queen willed it, seated themselves in a ring on the green grass; while she bespoke them thus, "As ye see, the sun is high and the heat great, nor is aught heard save the crickets yonder among the olives; wherefore it were doubtless folly to go anywhither at this present. Here is the sojourn fair and cool, and here, as you see, are chess and tables,[28] and each can divert himself as is most to his mind. But, an my counsel be followed in this, we shall pass away this sultry part of the day, not in gaming,--wherein the mind of one of the players must of necessity be troubled, without any great pleasure of the other or of those who look on,--but in telling stories, which, one telling, may afford diversion to all the company who hearken; nor shall we have made an end of telling each his story but the sun will have declined and the heat be abated, and we can then go a-pleasuring whereas it may be most agreeable to us. Wherefore, if this that I say please you, (for I am disposed to follow your pleasure therein,) let us do it; and if it please you not, let each until the hour of vespers do what most liketh him." Ladies and men alike all approved the story-telling, whereupon, "Then," said the queen, "since this pleaseth you, I will that this first day each be free to tell of such matters as are most to his liking." Then, turning to Pamfilo, who sat on her right hand, she smilingly bade him give beginning to the story-telling with one of his; and he, hearing the commandment, forthright began thus, whilst all gave ear to him. [Footnote 27: _i.e._ three o'clock p.m.] [Footnote 28: _i.e._ backgammon.] THE FIRST STORY [Day the First] MASTER CIAPPELLETTO DUPETH A HOLY FRIAR WITH A FALSE CONFESSION AND DIETH; AND HAVING BEEN IN HIS LIFETIME THE WORST OF MEN, HE IS, AFTER HIS DEATH, REPUTED A SAINT AND CALLED SAINT CIAPPELLETTO.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  After which there was naturally less discipline than ever in the schoolroom, but considerably more friendship. However, Anna seemed quite contented, since Stephen was becoming so proficient in French; and observing that his wife looked less anxious these days, Sir Philip said nothing, biding his time. This frank, jaunty slacking on the part of his daughter should be checked later on, he decided. Meanwhile, Stephen grew fond of the mild-faced Frenchwoman, who in her turn adored the unusual child. She would often confide her troubles to Stephen, those family troubles in which governesses abound—her Maman was old and delicate and needy; her sister had a wicked and spendthrift husband, and now her sister must make little bags for the grand shops in Paris that paid very badly, her sister was gradually losing her eyesight through making those little bead bags for the shops that cared nothing, and paid very badly. Mademoiselle sent Maman a part of her earnings, and sometimes, of course, she must help her sister. Her Maman must have her chicken on Sundays: ‘Bon Dieu, il faut vivre—il faut manger, au moins—’ And afterwards that chicken came in very nicely for Petite Marmite, which was made from his carcass and a few leaves of cabbage—Maman loved Petite Marmite, the warmth of it eased her old gums. Stephen would listen to these long dissertations with patience and with apparent understanding. She would nod her head wisely: ‘Mais c’est dur,’ she would comment, ‘c’est terriblement dur, la vie!’ But she never confided her own special troubles, and Mademoiselle Duphot sometimes wondered about her: ‘Est-elle heureuse, cet étrange petit être?’ she would wonder. ‘Sera-t-elle heureuse plus tard? Qui sait!’ 2 Idleness and peace had reigned in the schoolroom for more than two years, when ex-Sergeant Smylie sailed over the horizon and proceeded to announce that he taught gymnastics and fencing. From that moment peace ceased to reign in the schoolroom, or indeed anywhere in the house for that matter. In vain did Mademoiselle Duphot protest that gymnastics and fencing thickened the ankles, in vain did Anna express disapproval, Stephen merely ignored them and consulted her father. ‘I want to go in for Sandowing,’ she informed him, as though they were discussing a career. He laughed: ‘Sandowing? Well, and how will you start it?’

• From The Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  friends, the one no longer regarding the other as the object of just. She has been a faithful nurse throughout my illnesses, serving without any thought of reward. The incident in question occurred in 1898, when I had no conception of brahmacharya. It was a time when I thought that the wife was the object of her husband’s lust, born to do her husband’s behest, rather than a helpmate, a comrade and a partner in the husband’s joys and sorrows. It was in the year 1900 that these ideas underwent a radical transformation, and in 1906 they took concrete shape. But of this I propose to speak in its proper place. Suffice it to say that with the gradual disappearance in me of the carnal appetite, my domestic life became and is becoming more and more peaceful, sweet and happy. Let no one conclude from this narrative of a sacred recollection that we are by any means an ideal couple, or that there is a complete identity of ideals between us. Kasturba herself does not perhaps know whether she has any ideals independently of me. It is likely that many of my doings have not her approval even today. We never discuss them, I see no good in discussing them. For she was educated neither by her parents nor by me at the time when I ought to have done it. But she is blessed with one great quality to a very considerable degree, a quality which most Hindu wives possess in some measure. And it is this; willingly or unwillingly, consciously or unconsciously, she has considered herself blessed in following in my footsteps, and has never stood in the way of my endeavour to lead a life of restraint. Though, therefore, there is a wide difference between us intellectually, I have always had the feeling that ours is a life of contentment, happiness and progress. 90.

• From Macho Sluts (1988)

  The discipline chamber, that shrine to domestic tranquility, was only a short distance away. Berenice surveyed the room from the threshold. Everything was in good order. Elise, the maid, was meticulous. She reminded herself that while Clarissa was away at finishing school, she would have more time to spend with Elise. Her maid was too well trained to complain about neglect, but the performance of any loved one will slacken and become slovenly if they are left unsupervised too long. Clarissa’s absence would not be intolerable, she told herself firmly. They must all be separated if Clarissa was to become a grown woman. The school was the next logical step to the development of her sexuality. Elise would be very entertaining, she promised herself. There were certain things one could not demand of a mere child. Perhaps it was time to throw another party for their friends. Elise had been kept so busy at the last one. Quite the belle of the ball. The chamber was paneled with dark wood. One wall and the ceiling contained large mirrors. A Persian carpet of intricate design, brightly and sensuously colored, covered the floor. In the middle of the room was a device that resembled a large sawhorse. The top bar and legs were well padded and covered with black leather. There were rings at the head and foot and along the legs. One pair of legs had leather stirrups nailed to it about a foot and a half from the floor. In one corner of the room, a complicated arrangement of ropes and pulleys dangled from the ceiling. A set of stocks had been pushed against one wall, next to a huge, lacquered chest. In the corner behind the door, an ivory-and-gold umbrella stand held an assortment of canes, switches, riding crops, dog whips, and bundles of birch twigs. Berenice straightened these as one would a flower arrangement, reminding herself of what was there. Then she went to the carved Chinese chest and removed four silver bracelets, four short pieces of medium-weight silver chain, and several finely crafted silver locks. These she arranged on the lid of the chest, then fished in her robe for the necklace she always wore, and reassured herself that the key to the locks was on her person. Clarissa arrived with the brandy. She knelt and offered it, head turned to the side, eyes cast down. Her mournful, pouting mouth and red eyes gave the traditional pose a dash of extra delight. Berenice left her in that position while she stroked the fire, then came and took the snifter from her. “Up on the horse,” she ordered. Clarissa swung onto its back with the skill of a gymnast—which, indeed, she was.

• From Macho Sluts (1988)

  He was not surprised when the big man put a hand around his throat and guided him down to the floor until he knelt with his cheek pressed against the warm denim that covered the master’s cock. Curt wrapped his arms around the thighs encased in latigo, smelling of motor oil, and felt that he had come home. But he was surprised when the stranger (he had already forgotten exactly what he looked like) loomed near and inquired if he, “the boy,” had given offense to the master. Roger scowled and said he had not known the boy was in anyone else’s service. Before the pawn could deny this, the stranger said, “Sir, he is not in my service. But I pointed you out to him and suggested he introduce himself. I would hold myself responsible if you were not pleased.” Placated, the master relaxed, and the upshot of the matter was that all three of them left the bar together, to game in one of the city’s better-equipped arenas. This master’s forte was whipping. In his black room, he had a large collection of English hunting crops, nautical cats, Scottish tawses, monks’ flails, and Australian quirts on display under glass. The spoiler gave each one a separate scrutiny and made a quiet comment or two that showed his appreciation of their history and construction. These implements were not for use. But the walls of the master’s inner sanctum were hung with enough modern copies to flog the entire mutinous crew of an aircraft carrier. The room was clean, but somber. These walls could never forget what they had witnessed, and made the visitor feel an obligation to live up to their memories. Wooden beams ran the length of the ceiling, massive enough to support any load hauled into space by the greasy sets of block and tackle that hung here and there. A vertical beam equipped with large, iron rings stood alone in the center of the room. In one corner, there was a waist-high device that a man could be comfortably bent over and bound to by a strap buckled across his back. It looked like a huge, ancient butcher’s block and was authentically stained. In another corner was a waist-high Barkley bench, the width of a human torso, minimally padded, with a hole in the center. To his credit, the young man stayed, something that is not easy for a novice to do the first time he finds what he is looking for. For a fleeting moment, he hoped that he would be bound face to face with the stranger who was (he finally realized) responsible for his presence here. Surely it would be easier to take what was coming if he had a companion, someone more experienced who would encourage him and share the pain. But the stranger had taken care to keep his relationship to the master ambiguous.