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 97 of 189 · 20 per page

• From Vox (1992)

  No teaspoons at all. One of the dinner forks from my great aunt’s set fell into the dishwasher once when I was visiting her and it got badly notched by that twirly splasher in the bottom, and someone at work was telling me he knew a jeweler who fixed hurt silverware, so I’m planning to have that fixed, it’s all ready to go. And I even got together all my broken sets of beads—I sorted them all out—the sight of all those beads jumbled together on my bedside table was making me unhappy every morning, and now they’re ready to be restrung, the pink ones in one envelope, and the green ones in one envelope, and the parti-colored Venetian ones in one envelope—and I have them on my dining-room table too, ready to go.” “The same jeweler who fixes silverware restrings beads?” he asked. “Yes!” “How did your beads get broken?” “They seem to break in the morning when I’m rushing to get dressed. They catch on something. The jade ones, my favorite set, which my father gave me, caught on the open door of the microwave when I was standing up too quickly after picking a piece of paper up off the floor. That was the latest tragedy. And of course my sister’s babe yanked one set off my neck. But they can all be repaired and they will all be repaired.” “Good going.” “Anyway, this apartment is transformed, I mean it, not just superficially but with new hidden pockets of order in it, and I waited until the midafternoon to have a shower, and I did not masturbate, because the illicitness of calling in sick without justification made me want to be pure and virtuous all day long, and I had an early dinner of Carr’s Table Water crackers with cream cheese and sliced pieces of sweet red kosher peppers on them, just delicious, and I did not turn on the TV but instead I turned on the stereo, which I haven’t used much lately. It’s a very fancy stereo.” “Yes?” “I think I spent something like fourteen hundred dollars on it,” she said. “I bought it from someone who was buying an even fancier system. It was true insanity. I had a crush on this person. He liked the Thompson Twins and the S.O.S. Band and, gee, what were the other groups he liked so much? The Gap Band was one. Midnight Star. And Cameo. This was a while ago. He was not a particularly intelligent man, in fact in a way he was a very dimwitted narrow-minded man, but he was so infectiously convinced that what he liked everyone would like if they were exposed to it. And good-looking. For about four months, while I was in his thrall, I really listened to that stuff.

• From Amplified Holy Bible (2015)

  5 “Then I will come near you for judgment; I will be a swift witness against sorcerers, against adulterers, against perjurers, and against those who oppress the laborer in his wages and widows and the fatherless, and against those who turn away the alien [from his right], and those who do not fear Me [with awe-filled reverence],” says the LORD of hosts. [Deut 24:17 ] 6 “For I am the LORD , I do not change [but remain faithful to My covenant with you]; that is why you, O sons of Jacob, have not come to an end. 7 “Yet from the days of your fathers you have turned away from My statutes and ordinances and have not kept them. Return to Me, and I will return to you,” says the LORD of hosts. “But you say, ‘How shall we return?’ You Have Robbed God 8 “Will a man rob God? Yet you are robbing Me! But you say, ‘In what way have we robbed You?’ In tithes and offerings [you have withheld]. 9 “You are cursed with a curse, for you are robbing Me, this whole nation! [Lev 26:14–17 ] 10 “Bring all the tithes (the tenth) into the c storehouse, so that there may be d food in My house, and test Me now in this,” says the LORD of hosts, “if I will not open for you the windows of heaven and pour out for you [so great] a blessing until there is no more room to receive it. [Mal 2:2 ] 11 “Then I will rebuke the e devourer (insects, plague) for your sake and he will not destroy the fruits of the ground, nor will your vine in the field drop its grapes [before harvest],” says the LORD of hosts. 12 “All nations shall call you happy and blessed, for you shall be a land of delight,” says the LORD of hosts. 13 “Your words have been harsh against Me,” says the LORD . “But you say, ‘What have we spoken against You?’ 14 “You have said, ‘It is useless to serve God. What profit is it if we keep His ordinances, and walk around like mourners before the LORD of hosts? 15 ‘So now we call the arrogant happy and blessed. Evildoers are exalted and prosper; and when they test God, they escape [unpunished].’ ” The Book of Remembrance 16 Then those who feared the LORD [with awe-filled reverence] spoke to one another; and the LORD paid attention and heard it, and a book of remembrance was written before Him of those who fear the LORD [with an attitude of reverence and respect] and who esteem His name. 17 “They will be Mine,” says the LORD of hosts, “on that day when I publicly recognize them and openly declare them to be My own possession [that is, My very special treasure].

• From Henry Miller on Writing (1964)

  The structural element of things reveals itself more readily to my eye. I eschew all clear-cut interpretations: with increasing simplification the mystery heightens. What I know tends to become more and more unstateable. I live in certitude, a certitude which is not dependent upon proofs or faith. I live completely for myself, without the least egotism or selfishness. I am living out my share of life and thus abetting the scheme of things. I further the development, the enrichment, the evolution and the devolution of the cosmos, every day in every way. I give all I have to give, voluntarily, and take as much as I can possibly ingest. I am a prince and a pirate at the same time. I am the equals sign, the spiritual counterpart of the sign Libra which was wedged into the original Zodiac by separating Virgo from Scorpio. I find that there is plenty of room in the world for everybody—great interspatial depths, great ego universes, great islands of repair, for whoever attains to individuality. On the surface, where the historical battles rage, where everything is interpreted in terms of money and power, there may be crowding, but life only begins when one drops below the surface, when one gives up the struggle, sinks and disappears from sight. Now I can as easily not write as write: there is no longer any compulsion, no longer any therapeutic aspect to it. Whatever I do is done out of sheer joy: I drop my fruits like a ripe tree. What the general reader or the critic makes of it is not my concern. I am not establishing values: I defecate and nourish. There is nothing more to it. This condition of sublime indifference is a logical development of the egocentric life. I lived out the social problem by dying: the real problem is not one of getting on with one’s neighbor or of contributing to the development of one’s country, but of discovering one’s destiny, of making a life in accord with the deep-centered rhythm of the cosmos. To be able to use the word cosmos boldly, to use the word soul, to deal in things “spiritual”—and to shun definitions, alibis, proofs, duties. Paradise is everywhere and every road, if one continues along it far enough, leads to it. One can only go forward by going backward and then sideways and then up and then down. There is no progress: there is perpetual movement, displacement, which is circular, spiral, endless. Every man has his own destiny: the only imperative is to follow it, to accept it, no matter where it lead him. I haven’t the slightest idea what my future books will be like, even the one immediately to follow. My charts and plans are the slenderest sort of guides: I scrap them at will, I invent, distort, deform, lie, inflate, exaggerate, confound and confuse as the mood seizes me. I obey only my own instincts and intuitions. I know nothing in advance.

• From Henry Miller on Writing (1964)

  Spare us further instruction! Are we to make green lawns as we advance from trench to trench? Are we landscape artists as well as butchers? Must we storm to victory perfumed like whores? For whom are we mopping up? How fortunate that I had only one reader! Such an indulgent one, too. Every time I sat down to write a page for him I readjusted my skirt, primped my hair-do and powdered my nose. If only he could see me at work, dear Pop! If only he knew the pains I took to give his novel the proper literary cast. What a Marius he had in me! What an Epicurean! Somewhere Paul Valéry has said: “What is of value to us alone (meaning the poets of literature) has no value. This is the law of literature.” Iss dot so now? Tsch, tsch! True, our Valéry was discussing the art of poetry, discussing the poet’s task and purpose, his raison d’être . Myself, I have never understood poetry as poetry. For me the mark of the poet is everywhere, in everything. To distill thought until it hangs in the alembic of a poem, revealing not a speck, not a shadow, not a vaporous breath of the “impurities” from which it was decocted, that for me is a meaningless, worthless pursuit, even though it be the sworn and solemn function of those midwives who toil in the name of Beauty, Form, Intelligence, and so on. I speak of the poet because I was then, in my blissful embryonic state, more nearly that than ever since. I never thought, as did Diderot, that “my ideas are my whores.” Why would I want whores? No, my ideas were a garden of delights. An absent-minded gardener I was, who, though tender and observing, did not attach too much importance to the presence of weeds, thorns, nettles, but craved only the joy of frequenting this place apart, this intimate domain peopled with shrubs, blossoms, flowers, bees, birds, bugs of every variety. I never walked the garden as a pimp, nor even in a fornicating frame of mind. Neither did I invest it as a botanist, an entomologist or a horticulturist. I studied nothing, not even my own wonder. Nor did I christen any blessed thing. The look of a flower was enough, or its perfume. How did the flower come to be? How did anything come to be? If I questioned, it was to ask, “Are you there, little friend? Are the dewdrops still clinging to your petals? ” What could be more considerate—better manners!—than to treat thoughts, ideas, inspirational flashes, as flowers of delight? What better work habits than to greet them with a smile each day or walk among them musing on their evanescent glory? True, now and then I might make so bold as to pluck one for my buttonhole. But to exploit it, to send it out to work like a whore or a stockbroker—unthinkable.

• From The Beautiful Room Is Empty (1988)

  Maria laughed at herself, teased me, and liked it when I made jokes at my own expense. The sudden shift of perspective that the long shot of humor required became habitual to me, something I’ve kept, though with less satisfaction than the practice is supposed to bring. That summer, Maria went to Solitaire, an artists’ colony in the Michigan woods, and in August my father let me join her for a week. All of June and July I’d worked as a stockboy for my father’s haberdasher—boxing and mailing garments, waiting on customers when things got busy, making deliveries, and endlessly repolishing showcases and restacking shirts and stockings. Now riding a train by myself through the hot, flat countryside seemed a rare freedom. I was free to eat, read, and doze when I wanted, to watch the afternoon light burn on silver grain elevators, to swoop past airless fields of luxuriant green and gaunt farmhouses or dilapidated barns painted long ago with now-faded Bull Durham chewing tobacco signs. The train hurtled through towns where cars waited at the crossing and a collie peered down its long nose at an alley cat and the sun found over there a single small window to dazzle—just as I imagined God, if He existed, might find in a whole crowd only one soul turned at the right angle to reflect His glory. And there, bordering that two-lane highway, was planted a row of signs that, word by word, asked a question, gave the joking answer, and ended with the name of a shaving soap, Burma Shave. Those were the years, in the late 1950s, when serious literature was teaching the few serious readers that communication between any two individuals is impossible, that we are all isolated and that this isolation is no accident but due to the “human condition” itself. And yet I, who had been isolated, now found such perfect communion with Maria that I couldn’t detect a single gap between us, and I exalted in our closeness. Of course, there were many differences and omissions, but now during the hot windless evening they were forgotten. We went wandering through the woods, great forests of shabby birches unspooling themselves, until we reached the dunes, climbed them, and looked out at the late afternoon sun reflected by Lake Michigan. We took off our shoes and sat on the beach, digging our feet down into a layer of cold, root-thick marl so much blacker than the hot surface sand. We stared into the sun and talked, our words overlapping, our laughter ringing out across the still, orange water. A loon flew overhead, then dove for a fish. We held hands. I was wearing my suit for the train (for in those days Americans still dressed up for travel), but Maria had on white shorts, a T-shirt, and sneakers, nothing more, so for once I felt the older, graver one. I was pale from my shopkeeper’s summer, she as tan as she ever became.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  The dawn from vermeil began to grow orange-tawny, at the approach of the sun, when on the Sunday the queen arose and caused all her company rise also. The seneschal had a great while before despatched to the place whither they were to go store of things needful and folk who should there make ready that which behoved, and seeing the queen now on the way, straightway let load everything else, as if the camp were raised thence, and with the household stuff and such of the servants as remained set out in rear of the ladies and gentlemen. The queen, then, with slow step, accompanied and followed by her ladies and the three young men and guided by the song of some score nightingales and other birds, took her way westward, by a little-used footpath, full of green herbs and flowers, which latter now all began to open for the coming sun, and chatting, jesting and laughing with her company, brought them a while before half tierce,[149] without having gone over two thousand paces, to a very fair and rich palace, somewhat upraised above the plain upon a little knoll. Here they entered and having gone all about and viewed the great saloons and the quaint and elegant chambers all throughly furnished with that which pertaineth thereunto, they mightily commended the place and accounted its lord magnificent. Then, going below and seeing the very spacious and cheerful court thereof, the cellars full of choicest wines and the very cool water that welled there in great abundance, they praised it yet more. Thence, as if desirous of repose, they betook themselves to sit in a gallery which commanded all the courtyard and was all full of flowers, such as the season afforded, and leafage, whereupon there came the careful seneschal and entertained and refreshed them with costliest confections and wines of choice. Thereafter, letting open to them a garden, all walled about, which coasted the palace, they entered therein and it seeming to them, at their entering, altogether[150] wonder-goodly, they addressed themselves more intently to view the particulars thereof. It had about it and athwart the middle very spacious alleys, all straight as arrows and embowered with trellises of vines, which made great show of bearing abundance of grapes that year and being then all in blossom, yielded so rare a savour about the garden, that, as it blent with the fragrance of many another sweet-smelling plant that there gave scent, themseemed they were among all the spiceries that ever grew in the Orient. The sides of these alleys were all in a manner walled about with roses, red and white, and jessamine, wherefore not only of a morning, but what while the sun was highest, one might go all about, untouched thereby, neath odoriferous and delightsome shade.

• From Henry Miller on Writing (1964)

  As I poured a thimbleful of the fiery green liqueur into my glass, I said: “There’s only one thing missing now: a harem .” “Pop supplied the Chartreuse,” she said. “He was so delighted with those pages.” “Let’s hope he’ll like the next fifty pages as much.” “You’re not writing the book for him, Val. You’re writing it for us .” “That’s true,” I said. “I forget that sometimes.” It occurred to me then that I hadn’t told her anything yet about the outline of the real book. “There’s something I have to tell you,” I began. “Or should I? Maybe I ought to keep it to myself a while longer.” She begged me not to tease. “All right, I’ll tell you. It’s about the book I intend to write one day. I’ve got the notes for it all written out. I wrote you a long letter about it, when you were in Vienna or God knows where. I couldn’t send the letter because you gave me no address. Yes, this will really be a book … a huge one. About you and me.” “Didn’t you keep the letter?” “No. I tore it up. Your fault! But I’ve got the notes. Only I won’t show them to you yet.” “Why?” “Because I don’t want any comments. Besides, if we talk about it I may never write the book. Also, there are some things I wouldn’t want you to know about until I had written them out.” “You can trust me,” she said. She began to plead with me. “No use,” I said, “you’ll have to wait.” “But supposing the notes got lost?” “I could write them all over again. That doesn’t worry me in the least.” She was getting miffed now. After all, if the book was about her as well as myself … And so on. But I remained adamant. Knowing very well that she would turn the place upside down in order to lay hands on the notes, I gave her to understand that I had left them at my parents’ home. “I put them where they’ll never find them,” I said. I could tell from the look she gave me that she wasn’t taken in by this. Whatever her move was, she pretended to be resigned, to think no more of it. To sweeten the atmosphere I told her that if the book ever got written, if it ever saw the light of day, she would find herself immortalized. And since that sounded a bit grandiloquent I added, “You may not always recognize yourself but I promise you this, when I get through with your portrait you’ll never be forgotten.” She seemed moved by this. “You sound awfully sure of yourself,” she said. “I have reason to. This book I’ve lived . I can begin anywhere and find my way around. It’s like a lawn with a thousand sprinklers: all I need do is turn on the faucet.” I tapped my head.

• From Henry Miller on Writing (1964)

  Often I put down things which I do not understand myself, secure in the knowledge that later they will become clear and meaningful to me. I have faith in the man who is writing, who is myself, the writer. I do not believe in words, no matter if strung together by the most skillful man: I believe in language, which is something beyond words, something which words give only an inadequate illusion of. Words do not exist separately, except in the minds of scholars, etymologists, philologists, etc. Words divorced from language are dead things, and yield no secrets. A man is revealed in his style, the language which he has created for himself. To the man who is pure at heart I believe that everything is as clear as a bell, even the most esoteric scripts. For such a man there is always mystery, but the mystery is not mysterious, it is logical, natural, ordained, and implicitly accepted. Understanding is not a piercing of the mystery, but an acceptance of it, a living blissfully with it, in it, through and by it. I would like my words to flow along in the same way that the world flows along, a serpentine movement through incalculable dimensions, axes, latitudes, climates, conditions. I accept a priori my inability to realize such an ideal. It does not bother me in the least. In the ultimate sense, the world itself is pregnant with failure, is the perfect manifestation of imperfection, of the consciousness of failure. In the realization of this, failure is itself eliminated. Like the primal spirit of the universe, like the unshakable Absolute, the One, the All, the creator, i.e., the artist, expresses himself by and through imperfection. It is the stuff of life, the very sign of livingness. One gets nearer to the heart of truth, which I suppose is the ultimate aim of the writer, in the measure that he ceases to struggle, in the measure that he abandons the will. The great writer is the very symbol of life, of the non-perfect. He moves effortlessly, giving the illusion of perfection, from some unknown center which is certainly not the brain center but which is definitely a center, a center connected with the rhythm of the whole universe and consequently as sound, solid, unshakable, as durable, defiant, anarchic, purposeless, as the universe itself. Art teaches nothing, except the significance of life. The great work must inevitably be obscure, except to the very few, to those who like the author himself are initiated into the mysteries. Communication then is secondary: it is perpetuation which is important. For this only one good reader is necessary. If I am a revolutionary, as has been said, it is unconsciously. I am not in revolt against the world order. “I revolutionize,” as Blaise Cendrars said of himself. There is a difference. I can as well live on the minus side of the fence as on the plus side.

• From Henry Miller on Writing (1964)

  I am as much a part of the present order as any man alive. I have been molded and formed by it; I have revolted against it; and finally I have been forced to accept it or die of a broken heart. But to accept the condition of life in which I happen to find myself does not mean that I believe in or approve of it. I have always endeavored, and I still endeavor, to live my own life in my own way. I have no desire to kill my fellow-man nor to rob him of his possessions nor to persecute him for thinking or behaving other than I do. I am a man of peace whose sole aim is to enjoy life to the utmost. Simple and banal as it sounds, it has nevertheless taken me the greater part of a lifetime to make this a reality. To become a writer was not easy for me. It was not until my thirty-third year that I ventured it. Even then I did not really begin. From the year 1924, when I resolved never again to work for any man but to be my own master absolute, from that year when I began practicing the art, as they say, until the year 1934, nothing I wrote was ever published excepting three or four short texts in magazines of no importance. It was in Paris, in the year 1934, that my first published book was brought out by the Obelisk Press: Tropic of Cancer . It was in Paris, I may add, that I found myself, as a man and as an artist. During those ten years in which I was acquiring mastery over my medium I remained unpublished not because my work was larded with pornography or obscenity but, as I am now convinced, because I had yet to discover my own identity. It was in writing the Tropic of Cancer that I found my own voice. The critics have coined all sorts of images to reveal the supposed character of this work. It could be described very simply, in my opinion, by saying that it was an attempt to blow off steam. If it was not a pleasant, conventional or decorous piece of literature it was at least normal and natural, given the circumstances which made its birth inevitable. After twenty years the critics, most of them at any rate, have conceded that it is a serious work, even a work of art. In the intervening years I have written over twenty-five books, all of them published, and most of them translated into various languages.

• From Amplified Holy Bible (2015)

  8 Like a bird that wanders from her nest [with its comfort and safety], So is a man who wanders from his home. 9 Oil and perfume make the heart glad; So does the sweetness of a friend’s counsel that comes from the heart. 10 Do not abandon your own friend and your father’s friend, And do not go to your brother’s house in the day of your disaster. Better is a neighbor who is near than a brother who is far away. 11 My son, be wise, and make my heart glad, That I may reply to him who reproaches (reprimands, criticizes) me. [Prov 10:1 ; 23:15 , 24 ] 12 A prudent man sees evil and hides himself and avoids it, But the naive [who are easily misled] continue on and are punished [by suffering the consequences of sin]. [Prov 22:3 ] 13 [The judge tells the creditor,] “Take the garment of one who is surety (guarantees a loan) for a stranger; And hold him in pledge when he is surety for an immoral woman [for it is unlikely the debt will be repaid].” [Prov 20:16 ] 14 He who blesses his neighbor with a loud voice early in the morning, It will be counted as a curse to him [for it will either be annoying or his purpose will be suspect]. 15 A constant dripping on a day of steady rain And a contentious (quarrelsome) woman are alike; [Prov 19:13 ] 16 Whoever attempts to restrain her [criticism] might as well try to stop the wind, And grasps oil with his right hand. 17 As iron sharpens iron, So one man sharpens [and influences] another [through discussion]. 18 He who tends the fig tree will eat its fruit, And he who faithfully protects and cares for his master will be honored. [1 Cor 9:7 , 13 ] 19 As in water face reflects face, So the heart of man reflects man. 20 Sheol (the place of the dead) and Abaddon (the underworld) are never satisfied; Nor are the eyes of man ever satisfied. [Prov 30:16 ; Hab 2:5 ] 21 The refining pot is for silver and the furnace for gold [to separate the impurities of the metal], And each is tested by the praise given to him [and his response to it, whether humble or proud]. 22 Even though you pound a [hardened, arrogant] fool [who rejects wisdom] in a mortar with a pestle like grain, Yet his foolishness will not leave him. 23 Be diligent to know the condition of your flocks, And pay attention to your herds; 24 For riches are not forever, Nor does a crown endure to all generations. 25 When the grass is gone, the new growth is seen, And herbs of the mountain are gathered in, 26 The lambs will supply wool for your clothing, And the goats will bring the price of a field.

• From Another Country (1962)

  But had he ever loved Rufus? Or had it simply been rage and nostalgia and guilt? and shame? Was it the body of Rufus to which he had clung, or the bodies of dark men, seen briefly, somewhere, in a garden or a clearing, long ago, sweat running down their chocolate chests and shoulders, their voices ringing out, the white of their jock-straps beautiful against their skin, one with his head tilted back before a dipper—and the water splashing, sparkling, singing down!—one with his arm raised, laying an axe to the base of a tree? Certainly he had never succeeded in making Rufus believe he loved him. Perhaps Rufus had looked into his eyes and seen those dark men Eric saw, and hated him for it. He lay very still, feeling Yves’ unmoving, trusting weight, feeling the sun. “Yves—–?” “Oui, mon chou?” “Let’s go inside. I think, maybe, I’d like to take a shower and have a drink. I’m beginning to feel sticky.” “Ah, les américains avec leur drinks! I will surely become an alcoholic in New York.” But he raised his head and kissed Eric swiftly on the tip of his nose and stood up. He stood between Eric and the sun; his hair very bright, his face in shadow. He looked down at Eric and grinned. “Alors tu es toujours prêt, toi, d’après ce que je vois.” Eric laughed. “Et toi, salaud?” “Mais moi, je suis français, mon cher, je suis pas puritain, fort heureusement. T’aura du te rendre compte d’ailleurs.” He pulled Eric to his feet and slapped him on the buttocks with the red bikini. “Viens. Take your shower. I think we have almost nothing left to drink, I will bicycle down to the village. What shall I get?” “Some whiskey?” “Naturally, since that is the most expensive. Are we eating in or out?” They started into the house, with their arms around each other. “Try to get Madame Belet to come and cook something for us.” “What do you want to eat?” “I don’t care. Whatever you want.” The house was long and low, built of stone, and very cool and dark after the heat and brightness of the kitchen. The kitten had followed them in and now murmured insistently at their feet. “Perhaps I will feed her before I go. It will only take a minute.” “She can’t be hungry yet, she eats all the time,” said Eric. But Yves had already begun preparing the kitten’s food. They had entered through the kitchen and Eric walked through it and through the dining salon, into their bedroom, and threw himself down on the bed. The bedroom also had an entrance on the garden. The mimosas pressed against the window, and beyond these were two or three orange trees, holding hard, small oranges, like Christmas balls. There were olive trees in the garden, too, but they had been long untended; it was not worth anyone’s while to pick the olives.

• From Amplified Holy Bible (2015)

  Proverbs 3 The Rewards of Wisdom 1 M Y SON , do not forget my a teaching, But let your heart keep my commandments; 2 For length of days and years of life [worth living] And tranquility and prosperity [the wholeness of life’s blessings] they will add to you. 3 Do not let mercy and kindness and truth leave you [instead let these qualities define you]; Bind them [securely] around your neck, Write them on the tablet of your heart. [Col 3:9–12 ] 4 So find favor and high esteem In the sight of God and man. [Luke 2:52 ] 5 Trust in and rely confidently on the LORD with all your heart And do not rely on your own insight or understanding. 6 b In all your ways know and acknowledge and recognize Him, And He will make your paths straight and smooth [removing obstacles that block your way]. 7 Do not be wise in your own eyes; Fear the LORD [with reverent awe and obedience] and turn [entirely] away from evil. [Prov 8:13 ] 8 It will be health to your body [your marrow, your nerves, your sinews, your muscles—all your inner parts] And refreshment (physical well-being) to your bones. 9 Honor the LORD with your wealth And with the first fruits of all your crops (income); [Deut 26:2 ; Mal 3:10 ; Luke 14:13 , 14 ] 10 Then your barns will be abundantly filled And your vats will overflow with new wine. [Deut 28:8 ] 11 My son, do not reject or take lightly the discipline of the LORD [learn from your mistakes and the testing that comes from His correction through discipline]; Nor despise His rebuke, [Ps 94:12 ; Heb 12:5 , 6 ; Rev 3:19 ] 12 For those whom the LORD loves He corrects, Even as a father corrects the son in whom he delights. 13 Happy [blessed, considered fortunate, to be admired] is the man who finds [skillful and godly] wisdom, And the man who gains understanding and insight [learning from God’s word and life’s experiences], 14 For wisdom’s profit is better than the profit of silver, And her gain is better than fine gold. 15 She is more precious than rubies; And nothing you can wish for compares with her [in value]. [Job 28:12–18 ] 16 Long life is in her right hand; In her left hand are riches and honor. [Prov 8:12–21 ; 1 Tim 4:8 ] 17 Her ways are highways of pleasantness and favor, And all her paths are peace. 18 She is a tree of life to those who take hold of her, And happy [blessed, considered fortunate, to be admired] is everyone who holds her tightly. 19 The LORD by His wisdom has founded the earth; By His understanding He has established the heavens. [Col 1:16 ] 20 By His knowledge the deeps were broken up And the clouds drip with dew.

• From Becoming Myself: A Psychiatrist's Memoir (2017)

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN A YEAR IN LONDON I n 1967, I received a career teaching award from the National Institute of Mental Health that permitted me to spend a year at the Tavistock Clinic in London. I planned to study the Tavistock approach to group therapy and begin working in earnest on a group therapy textbook. We found a house on Reddington Road in Hampstead close to the clinic, and our family of five (Ben, our youngest son, was not yet born) began a heavenly and memorable year abroad. I had swapped offices with John Bowlby, an eminent British psychiatrist from the Tavistock Clinic who was spending the year at Stanford. His London office was in the center of the clinic, allowing me much contact with the faculty. During that year I would walk each morning from our house to the clinic, ten blocks away, passing a fine eighteenth-century church. The small churchyard inside its grounds contained a score of headstones, several of them askew and so worn that the names were unreadable. The larger cemetery across the street was the resting place of a few prominent nineteenth-and twentieth-century figures, such as the writer Daphne du Maurier. Nearby I passed a stately, pillared mansion in which General Charles de Gaulle had lived during the German occupation of France. It was for sale for 100,000 pounds, and Marilyn and I often wished and fantasized that we had the funds to purchase it. A block farther was the huge mansion that had been used in the Mary Poppins film for the Julie Andrews and Dick Van Dyke rooftop dance scenes. Then, I continued down Finchley Road to Belsize Lane and entered a four-story nondescript building that housed the Tavistock Clinic. John Sutherland, the head of the Tavistock, was a kind and most genial Scotsman. He greeted me graciously on my first day, introduced me to his staff, and invited me to attend all clinic seminars and to observe the staff-led therapy groups. I was introduced to the psychiatrists involved with group work, and throughout the year I had ongoing contact with Pierre Turquet, Robert Gosling, and Henry Ezriel. Though I found them to be astute and welcoming, their approach to group leadership struck me as bizarrely distant and unengaged. Tavistock group leaders never spoke directly to any particular member, but directed 100 percent of their comments to the ceiling, limiting themselves only to remarks about the “group.” I recall a meeting one evening when one of the leaders, Pierre Turquet, said, “If all the members of this group have come in this ghastly rain from the far corners of London and choose to talk about cricket, well then, that’s all right with me.” The Tavistock group leaders followed the ideas of Wilfred Bion, which focused on the unconscious processes in groups as a whole and had little interest in the interpersonal realm, except as it related to leadership and authority.

• From Becoming Myself: A Psychiatrist's Memoir (2017)

  In the coming days I attended seminars, yoga classes, and meditation exercises at the various monasteries. Though I was a failure as a meditator, I found the seminars and lecture of great interest—not for a minute did I doubt there was great wisdom in the Buddhist tradition. Nor did I consider enlisting in further meditation training. At that time it seemed solipsistic to me—I had a whole life elsewhere: a wife and family that I loved deeply, my own work, and my own method of ministering to others. I took boat rides on the Ganges, saw the daily cremations along the riverbank, the hordes of monkeys in the trees and on the roofs, and explored the surrounding area with a guide, a college student with a motorcycle. Next I went to Sarnath, the Buddhist holy city with many revered sites—for example, the deer park where the Buddha first taught the Dharma to his acolytes, as well the Bodhi tree grown from a cutting of the original tree under which the Buddha found enlightenment. When I went to the station to buy my ticket back to Calcutta, where I was to catch my plane back to the United States after a stop in Thailand, the ticket seller informed me that no seats would be available for several days. I was baffled, since the station appeared relatively deserted. Returning to my hotel, I asked the manager for help, and he informed me, with a smile, that the solution to this riddle was quite simple and that I had yet to learn the ways of India. He escorted me back to the train station, asked me for a five-dollar bill, then slipped the bill to the ticket seller, who courteously and instantaneously produced a ticket. Moreover, when I boarded the train, I observed that I was the sole passenger in the entire second-class car. From Calcutta I flew to Thailand, where I toured floating markets and Buddhist shrines and had an interesting conversation and tea with a Buddhist scholar I’d arranged to meet through a friend at home. In the evening, a friend of my cousin Jay took me out for a secular tour of the town. At the sprawling seafood restaurant where we went to eat, the waiter did not provide a menu but escorted us to a fishpond circling the restaurant and asked us to select our fish. He caught it in a long-handled net and guided us to a large fresh vegetable bin, where I selected side dishes. I did my best to instruct the waiter with my one Thai phrase, “Phrik rxn” (“No hot chili”), but must have mangled the words, for they elicited such boisterous laughter that other waiters came over to join in the merriment. After dinner my guide took me to my first and only Thai full-body massage parlor.

• From Another Country (1962)

  Vivaldo came by late the next afternoon to find Rufus still in bed and Leona in the kitchen making breakfast. It was Leona who opened the door. And Rufus watched with delight the slow shock on Vivaldo’s face as he looked from Leona, muffled in Rufus’ bathrobe, to Rufus, sitting up in bed, and naked except for the blankets. Let the liberal white bastard squirm, he thought. “Hi, baby,” he called, “come on in. You just in time for breakfast.” “I’ve had my breakfast,” Vivaldo said, “but you people aren’t even decent yet. I’ll come back later.” “Shit, man, come on in. That’s Leona. Leona, this here’s a friend of mine, Vivaldo. For short. His real name is Daniel Vivaldo Moore. He’s an Irish wop.” “Rufus is just full of prejudice against everybody,” said Leona, and smiled. “Come on in.” Vivaldo closed the door behind him awkwardly and sat down on the edge of the bed. Whenever he was uncomfortable—which was often—his arms and legs seemed to stretch to monstrous proportions and he handled them with bewildered loathing, as though he had been afflicted with them only a few moments before. “I hope you can eat something,” Leona said. “There’s plenty and it’ll be ready in just a second.” “I’ll have a cup of coffee with you,” Vivaldo said, “unless you happen to have some beer.” Then he looked over at Rufus. “I guess it was quite a party.” Rufus grinned. “Not bad, not bad.” Leona opened some beer and poured it into a tumbler and brought it to Vivaldo. He took it, looking up at her with his quick, gypsy smile, and spilled some on one foot. “You want some, Rufus?” “No, honey, not yet. I’ll eat first.” Leona walked back into the kitchen. “Ain’t she a splendid specimen of Southern womanhood?” Rufus asked. “Down yonder, they teach their women-folks to serve.” From the kitchen came Leona’s laugh. “They sure don’t teach us nothing else.” “Honey, as long as you know how to make a man as happy as you making me, you don’t need to know nothing else.” Rufus and Vivaldo looked at each other a moment. Then Vivaldo grinned. “How about it, Rufus. You going to get your ass up out of that bed?” Rufus threw back the covers and jumped out of bed. He raised his arms high and yawned and stretched. “You’re giving quite a show this afternoon,” Vivaldo said, and threw him a pair of shorts. Rufus put on the shorts and an old pair of gray slacks and a faded green sport shirt. “You should have made it to that party,” he said, “after all. There was some pot on the scene that wouldn’t wait.” “Well. I had my troubles last night.” “You and Jane? As usual?” “Oh, she got drunk and pulled some shit. You know. She’s sick, she can’t help it.” “I know she’s sick. But what’s wrong with you?”

• From Becoming Myself: A Psychiatrist's Memoir (2017)

  A staff of six living in huts on the property spent their days cleaning, cooking, gardening, playing music, and making flower and fruit arrangements for the frequent religious festivals. A three-minute walk out the back gate down a sandy trail took us to the magnificent Kuta Beach—still pristine and deserted in those days. And all of this for far less than the rent we charged for our Palo Alto house. B ALI , 1988. A fter writing “Three Unopened Letters,” the story about Saul, from the notes I had sketched in my passport, I spent mornings on the garden bench trolling my case notes for the next story. In the afternoons Marilyn and I wandered for hours along the beach, and, almost imperceptibly, a story would take root and develop such momentum as to compel me to put aside all other notes and devote myself to that particular tale. As I started writing, I had no idea where a story would lead me or what shape it would take. I felt myself almost a bystander as I watched it take root and send up shoots that soon interlaced. I have often heard writers say a story writes itself, but I hadn’t understood it until then. After two months, I had an entirely new and deeper appreciation of an old anecdote Marilyn had told me years before about the nineteenth-century English novelist William Thackeray. One evening, as Thackeray came out of his study, his wife asked how the day’s writing had gone. He responded, “Oh, a terrible day! Pendennis [one of his characters] made a fool of himself and I simply couldn’t stop him.” Soon I became used to listening to my characters speaking to one another. I eavesdropped all the time—even after finishing the day’s writing, when I was strolling arm in arm with Marilyn on one of the endless buttery beaches. Before long I had another writerly experience, one of the peak experiences of my life. At some point while deep into a story, I observed my fickle mind flirting with another story, one taking shape beyond my immediate perception. I took this to be a signal—an uncanny one, to myself from myself—that the story I was writing was coming to an end and a new one readying for birth. Now that all my words existed only on this unfamiliar computer, I grew more and more uneasy at having no paper copies of my work—such things as flash drives, Time Machine, and Dropbox were yet unborn. Unfortunately, my portable Kodak printer did not enjoy travel and, after only one month in Bali, gave up the ghost. Alarmed at the prospect of my work vanishing permanently deep in the computer’s innards, I sought help. There turned out to be only one printer in all of Bali, in a computer school in the capital city of Denpasar.

• From How to Deal with Angry People (2023)

  What I mean here is that if you think of yourself as a person who wants to stay calm in these situations (better yet, a person who does stay calm in these situations), then there is no longer a decision to make when it happens to you. You’ve already made it and what you need to do at that point is simply work on being the person you have already said you want to be. This may sound a little too simple, so try and think about it this way. It’s about habit forming, and the hardest part about creating new habits is avoiding falling back on old habits during times of tension. Imagine you are trying to eat healthier foods (more vegetables, less sugar, and so on) and you go out to a restaurant for dinner. If you try and decide on the spot what to have, in the midst of all those tantalizing options, you are more likely to fall back on old habits. But if you look at the online menu and make your decisions in advance of getting to the restaurant, prior to being surrounded by temptation, you are more likely to make the healthy choice in the moment. Similarly, if you make the decision in advance to stay calm when faced by another’s anger, you have that to fall back on when things get heated. Find (or Create) a Pause Even if you’ve decided you want to be (or are) the type of person who stays calm in these moments, it can still be exceptionally difficult to catch yourself when you start to escalate. When someone gets angry with you and you start to match that anger with your own escalated emotion, it can be easy to forget your intention to remain calm. One strategy for dealing with this is to identify a “pause button” in your mind. As soon as you become aware of your escalation, make an effort to remind yourself of who you want to be in these moments. Pause, even if it means ignoring the person you are interacting with for a moment, to find some inner peace before you continue. I realize that this is easier said than done, but it can happen with practice. Later in the chapter, I’ll address some strategies for how to engage in that practice. But for now, understand that to stay calm, you must be able to identify in the emotional moment a time to pause and de-escalate.

• From Becoming Myself: A Psychiatrist's Memoir (2017)

  Everything that the beam has passed is lost in the darkness of the past; everything ahead of the spotlight is hidden in the darkness of that yet to be. Only that which is illuminated by the laser-thin spot of light is alive and aware. That thought always brings me solace: it makes me feel lucky to be alive at this moment. I sometimes think the very act of writing is my effort to dispel the passage of time and inevitable death. Faulkner put it best: “The aim of every artist is to arrest motion and hold it fixed so that at some point a stranger reads it and it comes back to life again.” I believe that thought explains the intensity of my passion to write—and to never stop writing. I take very seriously the idea that, if one lives well and has no deep regrets, then one faces death with more serenity. I have heard this message not only from many dying patients but also from great-souled writers such as Tolstoy, whose Ivan Ilych realized he was dying so badly because he had lived so badly. All my reading and life experiences have taught me the importance of living in such a manner that I would die with few regrets. In my later years, I have made a conscious effort to be generous and gentle with everyone I encounter, and I proceed into my later eighties with a reasonable degree of contentment. Another reminder of my mortality is my email. For more than twenty years I’v e been receiving a good amount of fan mail each day. I attempt to respond to each letter—I think of it as my form of daily Buddhist lovingkindness meditation. It gives me joy to think that my work offers something to those who write me. But I am also aware, as the years go by, of the ever-increasing numbers of email—a rush that is fueled by the knowledge that I shan’t live too much longer. Increasingly, this message is entirely explicit, as in this email that came a few days ago: … I wanted to write to you a long time ago, but thought that you would get overwhelmed with emails and would not have the time to read them all; however I thought I would email you anyway. As you say yourself, your age is advanced and you may not be around for much longer and then it would be too late. Or in another that arrived the following day: … To put it bluntly, and I think you will appreciate this, I realize you will no longer be here at some point. I don’t want to take your existence for granted and regret not contacting you when it’s too late.… It would mean a lot to me to have an exchange with you because most people I know are not interested in discussing death, nor have they made their own personal connection with the fact that they will die.

• From Amplified Holy Bible (2015)

  [Lev 7:12 ; Is 57:19 ; Hos 14:2 ] 16 Do not neglect to do good, to contribute [to the needy of the church as an expression of fellowship], for such sacrifices are always pleasing to God. 17 Obey your [spiritual] leaders and submit to them [recognizing their authority over you], for they are keeping watch over your souls and continually guarding your spiritual welfare as those who will give an account [of their stewardship of you]. Let them do this with joy and not with grief and groans, for this would be of no benefit to you. 18 Keep praying for us, for we are convinced that we have a good conscience, seeking to conduct ourselves honorably [that is, with moral courage and personal integrity] in all things. 19 And I urge all of you to pray earnestly, so that I may be restored to you soon. Benediction 20 Now may the God of peace [the source of serenity and spiritual well-being] who brought up from the dead our Lord Jesus, the great Shepherd of the sheep, through the blood that sealed and ratified the eternal covenant, [Is 55:3 ; 63:11 ; Ezek 37:26 ; Zech 9:11 ] 21 equip you with every good thing to carry out His will and strengthen you [making you complete and perfect as you ought to be], accomplishing in us that which is pleasing in His sight, through Jesus Christ, to whom be the glory forever and ever. Amen. 22 I call on you, brothers and sisters, listen [patiently] to this message of exhortation and encouragement, for I have written to you briefly. 23 Notice that our brother Timothy has been released [from prison]. If he comes soon, I will see you [along with him]. 24 Give our greetings to all of your [spiritual] leaders and to all of the saints (God’s people). Those [Christians] from Italy send you their greetings. 25 Grace be with you all. Hebrews 1 a 1:3 The word “Shekinah” does not appear in Scripture, but has been used by both Christians and Jews to describe the visible divine Presence of God, in such things as the burning bush, the cloud and the pillar of fire that led the Hebrews in the wilderness, and the Presence of God that rested between the cherubim over the mercy seat of the ark. b 1:4 In Greek “name” occurs last in this verse to emphasize that Jesus alone bears the name Son . No angel is superior to the Son. c 1:6 Most likely a reference to the second coming of Christ when He will be acknowledged as divine and worshiped as the Son of God. Another view suggests that this may be a reference to His incarnation as Jesus of Nazareth. d 1:8 The Son is recognized as deity by being addressed by the Father as “GOD .” e 1:8 I.e. symbol of authority. f 1:8 Late mss read Your .

• From How to Deal with Angry People (2023)

  Shortening That 20 Minutes So if a lot of people’s go-to for calming down, catharsis/exercise, isn’t good for them, what does work? What are some ways that people can stay calm in these emotionally charged situations? Make it a Core Value Most important, you need to embrace the desire to stay calm in these situations as an intentional life strategy. It is exceedingly difficult in the moment to decide you want to stay calm. Everything about the situation is screaming for you to emote, so deciding not to in the midst of the actual situation is nearly impossible. For this reason, you should make the decision to stay calm in advance of the situation. What I mean here is that if you think of yourself as a person who wants to stay calm in these situations (better yet, a person who does stay calm in these situations), then there is no longer a decision to make when it happens to you. You’ve already made it and what you need to do at that point is simply work on being the person you have already said you want to be. This may sound a little too simple, so try and think about it this way. It’s about habit forming, and the hardest part about creating new habits is avoiding falling back on old habits during times of tension. Imagine you are trying to eat healthier foods (more vegetables, less sugar, and so on) and you go out to a restaurant for dinner. If you try and decide on the spot what to have, in the midst of all those tantalizing options, you are more likely to fall back on old habits. But if you look at the online menu and make your decisions in advance of getting to the restaurant, prior to being surrounded by temptation, you are more likely to make the healthy choice in the moment. Similarly, if you make the decision in advance to stay calm when faced by another’s anger, you have that to fall back on when things get heated. Find (or Create) a Pause Even if you’ve decided you want to be (or are) the type of person who stays