Desire

Passages

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

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• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  The gods have decreed, and by eternal oath confirmed, that you must be wedded to one of these two noble knights who have suffered so much on your behalf. I may not tell you which of them. But one of them will be your lawful husband. Farewell. I must leave you now. But I can tell you this. The fires now burning on my altar have been a sign to you. You have seen your destiny.’ Then the figure of Diana vanished, with the rattling of her arrows in the quiver. Emily was amazed at this sudden vision. ‘I do not know what the goddess meant,’ she said. ‘But, Diana, I put myself under your protection. Dispose of me as you will.’ Thereupon she left the holy place and returned to the palace. There I will leave her. The hour after this, in the planetary hour of Mars, Arcite walked to the temple of the god where he would make his sacrifice. He performed all of the sacred rites and then, with passion and devotion, he prayed to the god of battle. ‘Oh powerful god, who holds dominion in the freezing land of Thrace - who holds the outcome of all wars, in all countries and kingdoms, in your hands - oh lord of all the fortunes of war - accept my sacrifice and hear my plea. If my youth deserves your sympathy, and if my strength is sufficient to serve you as one of your followers, I entreat you to have pity on my pain. You suffered the same anguish, the same hot flame of desire, when you took as your paramour the fair, young and fresh Venus. You possessed her at your will. Of course there was the occasion when lame Vulcan caught you in his net, just as you were lying with his wife, but let that pass. For the sake of all the pain you suffered, have pity upon my agonies. I am young and ignorant, as you know, but I believe that I am wounded by love more sorely than any other man in the wide world. Emily, the cause of all my woe, does not care whether I sink or swim. I know well enough that I must win her in the tournament before she will have mercy on me; I know well, too, that I will need your help and grace before I assay my strength. So assist me, lord, in the battle tomorrow. For the sake of the fire that once burned you, and for the sake of the fire that now burns me, ordain that the victory tomorrow will be mine. Let my portion be the labour, so that yours may be the glory. I will honour your sacred temple before any other place on earth. I will strive for your delight in all the arts and crafts of war. I will hang my banners, and all the arms of my company, above this hallowed altar.

• From Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life (1994)

  Then I landed a job as a clerk-typist at a huge engineering and construction firm in the city, in the nuclear quality-assurance department, where I labored under a tsunami wave of triplicate forms and memos. It was very upsetting. It was also so boring that it made my eyes feel ringed with dark circles, like Lurch. I finally figured out that most of this paperwork could be tossed without there being any real … well … fallout, and this freed me up to write short stories instead. “Do it every day for a while,” my father kept saying. “Do it as you would do scales on the piano. Do it by prearrangement with yourself. Do it as a debt of honor. And make a commitment to finishing things.” So in addition to writing furtively at the office, I wrote every night for an hour or more, often in coffeehouses with a notepad and my pen, drinking great quantities of wine because this is what writers do; this was what my father and all his friends did. It worked for them, although there was now a new and disturbing trend—they had started committing suicide. This was very painful for my father, of course. But we both kept writing. I eventually moved out to Bolinas, where my father and younger brother had moved the year before when my parents split up. I began to teach tennis and clean houses for a living. Every day for a couple of years I wrote little snippets and vignettes, but mainly I concentrated on my magnum opus, a short story called “Arnold.” A bald, bearded psychiatrist named Arnold is hanging out one day with a slightly depressed young female writer and her slightly depressed younger brother. Arnold gives them all sorts of helpful psychological advice but then, at the end, gives up, gets down on his haunches, and waddles around quacking like a duck to amuse them. This is a theme I have always loved, where a couple of totally hopeless cases run into someone, like a clown or a foreigner, who gives them a little spin for a while and who says in effect, “I’m lost, too! But look—I know how to catch rabbits!” It was a terrible story. I wrote a lot of other things, too. I took notes on the people around me, in my town, in my family, in my memory. I took notes on my own state of mind, my grandiosity, the low self-esteem. I wrote down the funny stuff I overheard. I learned to be like a ship’s rat, veined ears trembling, and I learned to scribble it all down. But mostly I worked on my short story “Arnold.” Every few months I would send it to my father’s agent in New York, Elizabeth McKee. “Well,” she’d write back, “it’s really coming along now.” I did this for several years. I wanted to be published so badly.

• From Summer Sisters (1998)

  “I think about that a lot …” Vix wriggles away and sees that Bru and Caitlin have arrived. The Bride and Groom. The Happy Couple. Bru is looking directly at her. Damn! He looks good. She’s been hoping he’d turned flabby, that she’ll feel nothing, nothing but relief that she’s not the one marrying him tomorrow. But the old physical reflexes kick in, her knees go weak, her palms grow clammy. The moment of truth, Victoria. Don’t blow it! They make eye contact. He gives her his soulful look, that look that could melt her insides. You’re my girl, Victoria. You’ll always be my girl . She has no idea what he’s really thinking. Maybe it’s more like, Get a look at Victoria! Jeez … has she gained weight or is it just that stupid T-shirt? She grabs a glass of champagne as it’s passed on a tray, holds it up as if to toast him, then gulps it down. He smiles as she ducks out of Von’s reach. There, it’s over … they’ve acknowledged one another and she’s survived . She makes her way across the room to Sharkey. She hasn’t seen him since Lamb’s fiftieth. There’s a woman at his side with a small child clinging to her back like a koala. He introduces her to Vix as Wren, and the child as her daughter, Natasha. Wren has a hair wrap and wears a long Indian print skirt. Is this a romantic relationship? Does Sharkey have a woman in his life? You might as well marry into it, Victoria. What about the brother? She feels like laughing, either that or crying, but she’s her mother’s daughter. She doesn’t wash her linen in public. Sharkey hugs Vix carefully, bending his body so that nothing of importance touches her and vice versa. “Are you okay?” he asks, and she understands that his question has nothing to do with her health. “I’m fine, really …” she tells him, helping herself to a second glass of champagne. “Good. That’s good.” He moved back east after he got his Ph.D. and is a post doc in the artificial intelligence program at M.I.T. “Daniel and Gus are here,” he says, nodding in their direction. Vix follows his gaze and there they are. The Chicago Boys together again. She’s Alice, fallen down the rabbit hole. Her whole history is connected to the guests at this party. Daniel is tall and slim, with thinning hair, impeccably dressed in Polo Sport, and wearing that same bored expression as the day she met him. He practices law now, with his father’s firm in Chicago. Vix knows that Abby has some unspoken wish for the two of them to wind up together. She wonders if Daniel knows it, too. Gus is a big man with a thick neck, broad shoulders, dark hair. Vix hasn’t seen him since the summer she walked out on Caitlin, eight years ago.

• From Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life (1994)

  This is inherently interesting material, since this is the task before all of us: sometimes we have to have one hand on this rock here, one hand on that one, and each big toe seeking out firm if temporary footing, and while we’re scaling that rock face, there’s no time for bubbles, champagne, and a witty aside. You don’t mind that people in this situation are not being charming. You are glad to see them doing something you will need to do down the line, and with dignity. The challenge and the dignity make it interesting enough. Besides, deciding what is interesting is about as subjective as things get. People hand me books and articles to read that they promise are fascinating, and I wake up holding the book, with a jerk—like when you wake up from a little nap at the movies, thinking that you are falling out of an airplane. Here, for me, is the last word on interesting, from a short story by Abigail Thomas: My mother’s first criterion for a man is that he be interesting. What this really means is that he be able to appreciate my mother, whose jokes hinge on some grammatical subtlety or a working knowledge of higher mathematics. You get the picture. Robbie is about as interesting as a pair of red high-top Converse sneakers. But Robbie points to the mattress on the floor. He grins, slowly unbuckling his belt, drops his jeans. “Lie down,” says Robbie . This is interesting enough for me . Another thing: we want a sense that an important character, like a narrator, is reliable. We want to believe that a character is not playing games or being coy or manipulative, but is telling the truth to the best of his or her ability. (Unless a major characteristic of his or hers is coyness or manipulation or lying.) We do not wish to be crudely manipulated. Of course, we enter into a work of fiction to be manipulated, but in a pleasurable way. We want to be massaged by a masseur, not whapped by a carpet beater. This brings us to the matter of how we, as writers, tell the truth. A writer paradoxically seeks the truth and tells lies every step of the way. It’s a lie if you make something up. But you make it up in the name of the truth, and then you give your heart to expressing it clearly. You make up your characters, partly from experience, partly out of the thin air of the subconscious, and you need to feel committed to telling the exact truth about them, even though you are making them up. I suppose the basic moral reason for doing this is the Golden Rule.

• From Summer Sisters (1998)

  “What’s she like?” Caitlin asked. “Nothing like you!” “Good.” It was Maia who explained to Vix that Caitlin wasn’t getting lower rates by waking her in the middle of the night. It was daytime in Rome when she placed those calls. Forget commuting to the Vineyard. Forget once a week, forget once a month. Her course load was so much more than she’d bargained for she had to give up her second job working weekends at Filene’s, and just stick with three nights a week at the Coop. Bru came up for Columbus Day weekend. He took a room in a Motel 6 outside of town. She had a sore throat and a fever. All she wanted was to climb into bed and sleep. He scolded her for getting sick. “You don’t know how to take care of yourself.” “Now you sound like Abby.” “Maybe Abby knows what she’s talking about.” Abby had called before the weekend urging Vix to set up an appointment with her doctor. “I’m not that sick,” Vix had told her. “It’s just a little cough.” “Little coughs can turn into pneumonia if you don’t take care of them.” “I’m taking care ... really.” She could hear Abby sigh. And now Bru was lecturing. “I keep telling you, you need vitamins. There’s a new health food store in Vineyard Haven. The owner really knows her stuff. I’m going to talk to her about you. See what she says. There must be a reason you’re always so run down.” Although he was concerned about her health he was turned on by her fever. Her body felt so hot, he said, inside and out. He couldn’t get enough of her. No, he wasn’t scared of catching her germs. And if he did it would be worth it. They had to make up for all that time apart. All those nights they’d fallen asleep dreaming of one another. “You know what I’ve discovered about myself?” she asked him late Sunday afternoon, when her fever finally broke and she was soaking in the Motel 6 bathtub.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  May, hearing his words, began to weep very gently. Then she recovered herself, and replied to him. ‘I have a soul to keep spotless, just like you, and of course I must guard my honour. The tender flower of my womanhood is in your hands. I gave it to you when the priest bound us together in holy matrimony. And I tell you this, my dear lord. I pray to God that the day never comes when I bring shame to my family or bring dishonour to my own name. I will never be unfaithful. I would rather die the most painful death in the world. If I prove false to you, then sew me in a sack and drop me in the nearest river. I am a gentlewoman, not a whore. Why do you talk to me this way? Well, men are ever untrue. They never stop reproaching their wives. They never stop being suspicious and distrustful.’ She caught sight of Damian sitting beneath the bush. She coughed lightly and then, using sign language, told him to climb a nearby pear tree full of fruit. He was on his feet and up the tree in a flash. He knew exactly what she intended, and could read her mind better than January ever could. She had written him a letter, in any case, where she had explained her plan. So for the time being I will leave him in the pear tree, with May and January strolling happily between the beds of flowers. Bright was the day and through the trembling air the golden rays of Phoebus descended to the earth, warming all the flowers with their caress. He was at that time in Gemini, I suspect, close to the summer solstice. The bright sun would soon begin its decline. It so happened on this day that Pluto, king of the fairies, entered the garden on the farther side. He was accompanied by his wife, Proserpina, and all the ladies of her entourage. He had taken her from Etna, if you remember, when she was gathering wild flowers on the mountainside. You can read the story in Claudian’s The Rape of Proserpina, where he describes the dark chariot in which she was driven away.

• From Summer Sisters (1998)

  with long, silvery hair, a concha belt, and hand-tooled leather boots. Vix had never been to a party like that, in a house like that, with grownups like that. She’d brought Caitlin a blank book for her birthday, covered in blue denim, with a silver chain as a page marker. She only hoped it was worthy of Caitlin’s thoughts and feelings. She dreamed about touching her hair, her sun-kissed skin. She wrote her parents a letter, making a case for letting her go, not the least being Caitlin’s promise that it wouldn’t cost them a penny. But Tawny didn’t buy it. She claimed Caitlin came from an unstable family. “Just one look at that mother ...” “But we won’t be with her mother,” Vix countered, “we’ll be with her father and he’s very stable.” “How do you know?” “Everybody knows. He’s going to call you. You can ask him yourself.” In the end, it was her father who convinced Tawny to let her go. Her father, a man who looked surprised when he opened their front door to find he had four noisy children inside. A man of so few words he could spend a whole weekend without speaking, but if he did, his voice dropped way low on the last part of every sentence and someone was always asking, What? What’d you say, Dad? But he was never unkind. She imagined jumping into his arms, hugging him as hard as she could to show how thankful she was, but that would have embarrassed both of them so she said, “Thanks, Dad.” And he mumbled something, something she didn’t get, while he rested his hand on top of her head. Until then the highlight of her childhood had been the weekend her father installed a molded laminate shower in the half-bath in her parents’ room. When it was hooked up and working Vix, Lewis, and Lanie all begged to be first to try it out. Her father looked right at her and said, “We’ll do it in age order. Vix gets to go first.” How proud she was that day! How grateful to her father for recognizing her as having a special place in the family. First daughter. Eldest child. A yellow shower with its own glass door. She’d wanted to stand under the warm water forever. Only later did she realize how

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  I have a few years left in me yet, and I am going to devote them to the arts of married life. I will couple and thrive. ‘And tell me this. Why does God give us those parts between our legs? Cunts are not made for nothing, are they? They are not unnecessary. Some will say that they have been created so that we can urinate. Others will say that they are just the marks to distinguish female from male. You know that isn’t true. All experience tells us otherwise. I hope that none of you priests and nuns will be angry with me, but I must say this. We have been given our private parts for pleasure as well as necessity. We must procreate as well as pee, within the limits set by God. Why else is there the ruling that a wife must freely render her body to her husband? How is he going to receive it without using his you-know-what? I’ll say it once again. Our parts are there for two purposes, for purging piss and for propagation. ‘Now I am not claiming that every man and woman is bound to propagate. That would be absurd. That would be to deny the virtue of chastity. Christ was a virgin. And He had a male body, did He not? Many saints have been virginal, too. I expect that they had private parts. I will say nothing against them. They are loaves of the purest white bread, and we wives are buns of coarse barley. And yet Mark tells us that Christ Himself fed the multitude with barley bread. I am not fussy. I will fulfil the role that God gave me. I will use my hole, my instrument, my cunt, with as good a grace as He bequeathed it to me. If I am grudging about it, God will never forgive me. My husband can have it morning and night, whenever it pleases him. He can pay his debt any time. I want him to be my debtor and my slave. I will be troubling his flesh, as they put it, while I am married to him. I am given power over his body for the rest of my life. Is that not so? That is what Paul says. Paul also orders husbands to love their wives. I quite agree -’ The Pardoner suddenly rose from his saddle and interrupted her. ‘Now, dame,’ he said. ‘By God and the cross you have been a noble orator in your cause. I was just about to get married myself but, hearing you, I am having second thoughts. Why should I put my flesh to so much trouble, as you put it? I don’t think I will be wed at all.’ ‘Just wait a minute,’ she said. ‘I haven’t begun my story yet. You may not find it a wholesome draught. It will not be as sweet as ale. But drink it down.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  The other two will keep watch over the treasure. As long as he comes back quickly with provisions - and says nothing when he is in town - we will be able to carry home the gold tonight to whatever place we think best. Do you agree?’ Then he picked up three sticks and, bidding them to draw in turn, put them tightly within his fist. The youngest of them chose the longest stick and so, according to the plan, he ran off towards the town as quickly as he could. As soon as he was out of sight the one who had conceived the plan turned to his friend. ‘You know that you are my sworn brother,’ he said in a low voice. ‘So I will tell you something to your advantage. We are alone. He has gone into town. You saw him. There is plenty of gold here to share among the three of us. No doubt about it. But what if I arranged it so that only two of us would benefit? Wouldn’t that be a friendly thing to do?’ The other one was puzzled. ‘How are you going to do that? He knows that the two of us are guarding the gold until his return. What are we going to do? What are we going to tell him?’ ‘If you swear to keep this secret,’ he whispered, ‘I will tell you in a few words what has to be done.’ ‘I swear. I will never betray you.’ ‘Listen closely then. Two people are stronger than one. Is that not so? When he comes back, get up as if you were about to play; pretend to wrestle with him, and at the same time I will stab him in the back. You must use your knife on him, too. Then we will be able to share out the gold between us, my dear friend, just you and me. We will be able to indulge ourselves. Why, we will dice all the day long!’ So these two scoundrels agreed to kill their friend and newly sworn brother. The youngest man, who had gone into town, had also been considering the situation. All he could see, and think of, were those glistening piles of coin. ‘Lord,’ he said to himself, ‘if only I could keep all that treasure for myself! No one in God’s world would be more pleased and happy.’ It was at this point that Satan, the foul enemy of mankind, whispered to him that he should procure poison and feed it to his two friends. When a man is living in such sin as he was, the fiend is permitted to tempt him even further. So he determined, there and then, to purchase poison and do murder without compunction or regret.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Poso la mirada en su camisa, viendo la empapada camisa azul marino pegada a su cuerpo, ajustada y moldeando cada centímetro de su pecho y estómago. Una franja de sus caderas y barriga se asoma justo debajo de donde se pega la camisa. Su piel es perfecta, sus curvas hermosas. Me trago el nudo en la garganta y me alejo rápidamente. Definitivamente tiene un cuerpo que no recuerdo que las chicas de diecinueve años hayan tenido a esa edad, pero solo tiene diecinueve años. Y es de Cole. No es mía. No la mires de nuevo. Dutch aparece y me da la pistola de grapas, y empiezo a reajustar la lona. Retrocede bajo mis brazos extendidos, ella se vuelve a colocar entre mis brazos extendidos y coloca sus manos debajo de las mías y se estira para sostener la lona mientras la engrapo. Algo cálido pasa bajo mi piel, pero lo sacudo. —¿Tengo que… llevarte a casa? —le pregunto—. ¿No tienes clase o algo hoy? —Horario de verano —contesta, mirándome—. Solo tengo una clase este trimestre, pero no es hasta mañana. Sin embargo, tengo que trabajar en el bar más tarde. Me pregunto cómo va y viene a trabajar, o a la universidad, ya que Cole comienza su día a las diez y no sale del trabajo hasta las seis. No tiene un vehículo para ir a trabajar. Lo que me recuerda… Tomaré algunas herramientas antes de irme de aquí que no tengo en casa. Tal vez pueda ayudar a Cole a trabajar en su VW hoy. Después de aproximadamente otra hora, todo está tan ajustado como se puede, el equipo está asegurado y guardado, y todos están empapados hasta los huesos. Dejo que los chicos se vayan. Odio perder tiempo, pero los veranos son lluviosos y hemos hecho lo que hemos podido. Demonios, ni siquiera la mitad de ellos apareció de todos modos. Subo a la camioneta con Jordan y me quito la chaqueta mojada, mientras ella se abrocha el cinturón de seguridad junto a mí. Enciendo el motor y espero a que el estacionamiento se despeje un poco antes de finalmente salir, ambos en silencio. Hace tanto silencio de repente, y me doy cuenta que la lluvia había sido tan constante durante las últimas horas que no había podido escuchar una voz a menos que se gritara. O un movimiento, a menos que fuera el mío. Ahora, mis oídos buscan instintivamente algo a lo que aferrarse, a la lluvia golpeando mi camioneta como balas de goma, la fricción del cuero en el volante en mi puño. El chapoteo de la lluvia debajo de los neumáticos cuando avanzo por la carretera, mi motor retumbando como una canción de cuna. Pero, aun así, es tan silencioso. Ella respira profundamente. Su abrigo cruje mientras desliza sus manos debajo de sus muslos. Escucho un suave clic y muevo mis ojos al piso donde está entrechocando suavemente sus zapatos. Se lame los labios, y hago una mueca. Jesús.

• From Summer Sisters (1998)

  25 SHE WAS THE ONE to suggest Bru meet her at the Flying Horses. After all, that’s where it all began. She got there early and, on a whim, bought a ticket and rode an outside horse. She’d worried for weeks about how it would be when she and Bru saw each other again. Would the feelings still be there or would they take one look, turn, and run in opposite directions? She wasn’t the same person she’d been last summer. She’d never be the same person. She was amazed, when she thought about it, that she could still eat, fall asleep at night, get up, brush her teeth, even laugh with friends, when all the time there was a hollow numbness someplace inside her. The boy who collected the rings was a thin teenager with unwashed hair and bad skin, nothing like the National Treasure of her first island summer, with his sun-streaked ponytail and muscled arms. A small girl in denim overalls rode the horse next to hers and as the carousel began to spin she grasped the pole tightly with both hands and shrieked. When they were in full whirl she caught a glimpse of Bru, moving through the crowd. She resisted the urge to call out to him and watched, instead, as he scouted the area, his thumbs hooked in the pockets of his jeans. She didn’t recognize his shirt. She was wearing something new, too, a white cotton pullover with a deep V neck. She’d let her hair hang loose, the way he liked it, and she’d dabbed Love’s Baby Soft on all his favorite places. When he spotted her he jumped onto the moving carousel. She held her breath as he worked his way toward her, that slow smile lighting up his face. Then he was alongside her. She licked her lips because suddenly her mouth went dry. He touched her bare shoulder, making her knees go weak, her stomach tumble. “How’re you doing?” “I’m okay. How about you?” “Pretty good.” He looked deep into her eyes and she could feel the heat between her legs. So, that part of her hadn’t died. “How’s Caitlin?” She didn’t want to think about Caitlin. “She’s in Europe.” “Yeah, Von’s disappointed. How come she took off like that without telling him?” “I guess he wasn’t that important to her.” “Not like you and me.” “No. Not like you and me.”

• From Summer Sisters (1998)

  Gus JESUS! When she opened the bathroom door and he caught a glimpse of her in that flimsy T-shirt, and under it the swell of her breasts, he was right back where he’d been two years ago, that night Abby and Lamb had almost blown it. Something happened to him that night, something he didn’t want to think about because his father always said, You don’t shit where you eat. But that night, just for a minute, he’d wanted to take her in his arms, feel her body against his. He’d warned himself. Cool it, she’s just fifteen. Yeah ... so? he argued. He knew girls her age who put out. Hell, he knew a fourteen-year-old who gave great hand jobs. He’s kept his distance since then, afraid to give in to his feelings. But now she’s seventeen and it’s a whole different ball game, isn’t it? 17 CAITLIN CALLED IT the Summer of Their Brilliant Careers. They were working as a team for Dynamo, a cleaning service, earning good money, and Caitlin never complained about the long days or the foul condition of some of the houses. She was proud of herself for learning to clean out a toilet bowl, for scrubbing a tub until there was no scum left, things she’d never learned from Phoebe. They awarded the most disgusting bathrooms the New and Improved Dingleberry Award. They never met or even saw most of their clients but they were privy to the most intimate details of their lives. They knew who was constipated by the boxes of Fleet enemas hidden in bathroom drawers or the prune juice and raw bran stocked in the fridge. They knew their clients’ medications and why they were taking them. They knew what their clients were reading, what music they listened to, and who watched porno tapes on the VCR. They knew who was having regular sex by the pubic hairs and bunched up tissues under the blankets, the lubricants on the bedside tables, the condom wrappers in the trash. Unlike some of the girls working for the service, they were discreet. They never tried on their clients’ clothes or experimented with their makeup. They had their standards. Their favorite clients were a gay couple out on Squibnocket Pond who left them beautifully printed lists of chores and always some little goody along with it, an unusual shell or a perfect rose or a sample box of Chilmark Chocolates. They made up for the assholes on Middle Road who smashed every dish in the house and left the pieces all over the floor. When the slimeball and his girlfriend came home in a huff that afternoon and found Caitlin and Vix still cleaning up, listening to Stevie Nicks on the

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  The Miller’s Tale Heere bigynneth the Millere his tale Once upon a time there was living in Oxford an old codger, a rich old carpenter; he followed his trade faithfully enough, but he also took paying guests into his house. One of these lodgers was a poor student who had finished the university course but was more interested in learning all the arts of astrology. He knew a number of ‘operations’ and ‘conclusions’ and ‘calculations’ - I don’t know the precise terms for every one of them, but he knew enough to work out the days of rain and the days of drought. He also had a ready answer when anyone asked him to prophesy the future. He was polite. He was courteous. His name was Nicholas. He also had an eye for the ladies, and he knew how to get them into bed without any fuss. He was as mild-mannered as a maiden, and very discreet. But inwardly he burned. He had his own chamber at the top of the carpenter’s house. There he would rub the juice of sweet herbs all over his body, so that he was as fragrant as odorous liquorice or balmy ginger. Of course this aroused the women. On the shelves above his bed were the instruments of his art, the globes and the treatises, the astrolabe and the abacus with its glass counters. Here is another detail which the girls noticed: his wardrobe was draped with an old scarlet curtain. And there was a harp beside his bed on which he played at night; the chamber rang to the sound of his sweet voice, with his rendition of ‘What the Angel Said to the Virgin’ and ‘The King’s Own Tune’. You would think that he was an angel himself. But no girl near him would have been a virgin very long. So passed the happy life of young Nicholas, depending blithely on the money he earned or was given by his friends. It made no difference to him. Now his landlord had recently taken a new wife. Alison was a sparkler, eighteen years old, and of course the carpenter loved her madly. Yet he was so jealous that he took great care to keep her to himself. She was young and lusty; he was old and crusty. What if someone should beguile her? He was too stupid to have read the works of Cato. Otherwise he would have learned that it is better for a man to marry a woman who is his equal. People should marry according to their age and rank. Winter and spring do not mix, especially in bed. Well he had made his bed, according to his wish, and now he must lie in it. This young wife was a beauty, as small and delicate as a little squirrel; she used to wear a girdle of striped silk. She had an apron, as white as morning milk, with as many folds and flounces as a wedding dress.

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

  Your torso literally stretches outward. Muscle tension melts away. With your torso expanded and your head held high, you see more of what surrounds you. Your peripheral vision expands, allowing you to take in more detail than you typically do. Your mind follows suit and it, too, expands. Conceptual boundaries, once sharply delineated and guarded, begin to soften, allowing objects and ideas that at one time seemed altogether separate to melt into a common pool of oneness. When positivity is genuine—when it is truly embodied and heartfelt—it becomes virtually inseparable from this sort of physical, sensory, conceptual—and indeed spiritual—openness. I call this eyes-open positivity. When positivity is truly genuine, your eyes, mind, body, and heart blossom open, wide open. Then there’s another form of positivity altogether, a kind that you put on, like an artfully applied mask. This form of positivity can be well-meaning, to be sure. People often come to it having learned a bit about the science of positive psychology, enough to make them resolve to be more positive themselves. Despite this good intention, this form of positivity can be a slippery form of self-deception. You can sometimes yearn so badly to be happy that you fool yourself into believing that you are. A telltale sign that betrays this form of positivity as a counterfeit state is that it remains above the neck. It shows up in the channels that you can most readily control—your words, your facial expressions, and your self-talk. But it doesn’t take root in your body or in your heart, and so it doesn’t fully flower into openness. The physical, sensory, conceptual, and spiritual openness that is the hallmark of genuine emotional positivity is simply absent. I call this eyes-closed positivity because its outlook on the world is self-protective, not immersive. Indeed, it can be quite narrow and rigid. Although it arises out of your sincere yearning for good feelings, it can also reflect an abiding ignorance about what the full experience of positivity means and entails. Making matters more complicated, eyes-closed positivity is a double-edged sword. At times it can actually be useful. No doubt you’ve heard the phrase: “Fake it ’til you make it.” At times, that can be great advice. My caveat, though, is while you’re faking your positivity, you’re merely seeking a springboard into the real thing. You are not reaping the benefits of genuine positivity. The other side of the sword is blunt and causes far more damage. Eyes-closed positivity cuts you off from precious opportunities to access true positivity. This happens when you strive to find bliss in your safe cocoon, mistaking it as the end, not the means. Although self-praise and other forms of positive self-talk can seem like good strategies for increasing your well-being, whether or not they are depends on whether you “walk the talk.” Put differently, knowing whether your self-talk is positive or negative simply isn’t enough.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  ‘Fortunately my fourth husband was soon in his coffin. I wept buckets, as wives are supposed to do. Boo-hoo. I kept a sorrowful look upon my face and draped a black kerchief over my head. I followed the proper custom, in other words. But since I already had my eye on my next husband, you may believe that I mourned less in private. So my late husband was carried to the church, with all our neighbours following his bier. Jankyn was with them, too. What a great pair of legs he had! I had never seen a more handsome face in that church-yard. Even before I had entered the church, I had fallen for him. Do you blame me? He was only twenty years old. My age. No, I’m lying. I was forty by then, but I had the desires of a twenty-year-old. I had the hot blood of a colt. Venus was in my ascendant. What did I have to lose? I was fair, and rich, and well set up. And I wasn’t that old. As my husbands always told me, I had the nicest pussy in England. I have got Mars in my heart, but Venus everywhere else. Venus gives me lust and lecherousness, but Mars grants me boldness. I was born under a good sign. So I ask you this. Why was love ever considered to be a sin? I have followed all my inclinations, by virtue of the constellations. I could no more withdraw my love from a handsome young man than I could disobey the stars. I will tell you something else. I have a red birthmark on my face, just where my hood hides it, and I have another one in a more private place. ‘So God be my judge I have never been discreet. I have never been backward. I have always followed my appetites. I didn’t mind if he was short or tall, black or white - if he liked me, I was on. I didn’t care if he was rich or poor, noble or serf, as long as I had him.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Exhala con fuerza, mostrando los dientes y cerrando los ojos. —Jordan... —Sacude la cabeza casi como una advertencia. Lo beso, nuestros labios se ciernen uno sobre el otro mientras el sudor se desliza por mi espalda. —¿Quieres tu polla en mi boca? —susurro. Muerde mi labio inferior suavemente y lo suelta. —Dilo otra vez. —Quiero chuparte la polla —digo de nuevo. Su polla me golpea como un martillo, y curvo los dedos de mis pies, sintiendo la cima de mi orgasmo. —Quiero lamerte —le susurro—, saborearte y hacer que te corras. Sus dedos se clavan en mi carne, y me duele la parte superior de mis muslos donde siguen golpeando la mesa, pero está haciendo que me corra de nuevo, y nada en el mundo se ha sentido tan bien. Estoy casi allí. Muevo su labio con mi lengua, sintiendo el fuego extenderse a través de mis muslos y sacudir mi interior. —¿Por favor? —susurro, retrocediendo en su polla y persiguiéndolo, también—. ¿Follarías mi boca esta noche? —¡Jordan, Jesús! —grita, y agarra mi hombro cerca del cuello y me golpea con tanta fuerza, que no puedo hablar, incluso si quisiera. Los dos nos corremos, mis nudillos se vuelven blancos mientras clavo las uñas en la mesa de madera, tensándome y apretando cada maldito músculo de mi cuerpo. —¡Pike! —grito—. Oh, Dios. Caigo sobre la mesa, abrazándome, cerrando los ojos y sintiéndolo pulsar dentro de mí. Su mano está plantada al lado de mi cabeza, y se cierne sobre mí, respirando con dificultad y sacudiéndose en mi interior un par de veces más. Quiero que se corra dentro de mí. Quiero que se derrame y quiero sentirlo. Estoy tomando la píldora, y soy saludable. Una vez que sepa que él también está saludable, le diré que las malditas gomas pueden irse a la jodida basura. Podría volver a provocarlo por video si su frustración acumulada me excita así. Unos momentos más tarde, mi respiración ha vuelto a la normalidad, y estoy agotada. —Sabes que estoy bromeando, ¿verdad? —le digo—. Solo lo haré para ti. Su mano se desliza por mi espalda húmeda, y lo escucho inhalar como si fuera a hablar, pero entonces algo golpea la puerta. —¡Jordan! —grita una voz—. Jordan, ¿estás aquí o no? Ambos saltamos, mi corazón se salta un latido. Cam. Pike se aparta de mí y me pongo las bragas, apresurándome a buscar mi sujetador y mi camisa. Escucho que la tapa del bote de la basura se cierra de golpe, y luego Pike está a mi lado mientras se apresura a meterse en su camiseta y yo en mi ropa. Pero justo en ese momento la puerta cruje y escucho la voz de Cam. —¡Jordan! —llama desde el interior de la casa. —¿Qué diablos? —gruñe Pike en voz baja, lanzándome una mirada asustada justo cuando Cam entra a la cocina. Pike se aleja un par de pasos de mí y se pasa la mano por el cabello mientras me abrocho los pantalones cortos.

• From St. Augustine's Confessions (2004)

  Lecture Nine Book III—The Journey Begins Scope: At the beginning of Book III, Augustine comes to Carthage “where the din of scandalous love-affairs raged cauldron-like around me.” But balanced against the story of his own lustful impulses is the beginning of his search for truth. At the age of 18, the young and lust-filled Augustine reads a work of Cicero as part of his training in rhetoric. Cicero urged his readers to seek those things that last forever. Of course, Cicero was not talking about fame or fortune or sex. Augustine thus begins his education, the process of turning toward the highest things. Because his mother was a Christian, he first turned to the Bible but is disappointed by the quality of the language. Because he wants things that last forever and he wants them soon and effortlessly, he becomes associated with a religious-philosophical group called the Manichees, adherents of a basically dualist way of looking at reality. Outline I. Augustine moves to Carthage to continue his studies. Carthage is the most important city in Latin-speaking North Africa and one of the great cities of the Roman Empire. II. In the course of his rhetorical studies, he read Cicero’s Hortensius. A. Although Augustine read the book for its style (form), he was drawn to its content (substance). 1. The book, which is now lost, encouraged the reader to seek eternal wisdom. 2. Augustine was won over by Cicero’s call to seek wisdom. 3. Because of his mother’s Christianity, he first sought that wisdom in the Bible. B. He was disappointed in his reading, because he found the writing itself to be inferior to the prose of Cicero and did not pursue it. ©2004 The Teaching Company. 27

• From St. Augustine's Confessions (2004)

  Scope: If sin was a problem to the child Augustine, it was much more of a problem as he grew older and became more mature. In Book II, Augustine explains how his parents dealt with him growing into a man. Although he tells us that his mother cared more than his father about his moral and spiritual development, both were too anxious for him to advance to worldly honors and, thus, cared more about his success in school than his goodness. The failure of his family to guide him becomes clear, beginning with his father’s discovery that his son had reached puberty. Combining the first part of Book II with what Augustine tells us about his schooling in Book I, we can conclude that the teenage Augustine has been born into sin, and his sinfulness has actually been furthered by both his teachers and his parents because they are so concerned about his goals of becoming rich and famous. Outline I. Augustine introduces Book II with his description of the desire of his adolescence–to love and be loved. A. Augustine does not distinguish, at this time in his life, between love and lust. B. Augustine describes how concupiscence dominates him and clouds the way he sees everything. II. Augustine introduces his father to the reader of the Confessions by telling of how he was praised for using his money to obtain for Augustine an expensive education. A. Augustine provides an alternative interpretation of his father—that he was acting selfishly to benefit from a son who would become rich and famous. B. Therefore, Augustine’s father was interested in Augustine’s success in school, not in his moral and spiritual development. His mother, Monica, felt similarly. ©2004 The Teaching Company. 21

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Gimo, la sensación y el sabor de él inundándome es tan fuerte que mi clítoris late entre mis piernas. Oh, mierda. Mis párpados se cierran, el calor y la adrenalina caen en picada desde mi pecho hasta mi ingle en el lapso de un segundo. Retrocede. —Mierda. —Y su puño se tensa en mi cabello. Pero regresa, su boca cubre la mía exigiendo más y apenas puedo recuperar mi aliento. Estoy ardiendo por todos lados. Sabe tan bien. Se siente tan bien. Solo toma un momento, pero mi cerebro finalmente se activa y estiro mi mano, tomando la parte de atrás de su cuello y besándolo también. Su mano se aferra a mi cintura y puedo sentir sus dedos deslizarse debajo de la tira de seda roja de mis bragas asomándose, enrollando su mano una vez en la tela como si estuviera a punto de arrancarla. Mi coño palpita ante la idea. Su lengua es ardiente y exigente, moviéndose rápidamente en el interior de mi boca, jugando con la mía y cuando retrocede una milésima para mordisquear mi labio inferior, me levanto sobre la punta de mis pies, sintiendo el dolor cálido y resbaloso entre mis piernas. Oh, Dios. Se mueve de mis labios a mis mejillas, dejando besos a lo largo de mi mandíbula y de regreso por mi cuello. Solo puedo arquearlo para darle vía libre. Y sonrío por dentro. Desea esto. Me desea. Mi piel vibra, el vello se eriza en mis brazos y me dan escalofríos al sentir sus manos que comienzan a explorar tanto como su boca. Presiono mi trasero contra su entrepierna y siento la rugosidad de su polla, dura y tentadora. Aparta su boca, gimiendo ante mi empujón. —Jordan. —Jadea, con los ojos cerrados y sus cejas fruncidas con dolor—. Mierda, no podemos hacer esto. Me doy la vuelta, arqueándome sobre las puntas de mis pies y apoyo mi frente contra la suya con mis manos en su cintura. —Lo sé —digo—. Lo sé. Dios, ¿por qué tenía que suceder esto? Me cierno sobre sus labios, sintiéndolos mientras su cálido aliento hace que quiera envolverme dentro de él. —Lo sé —susurro de nuevo—. Lo arruiné, ¿cierto? Somos víctimas de las circunstancias. Al menos estoy convencida que me hubiera gustado sin importar nada. Si fuera cualquier otro tipo que entrara a mi bar, se sentara y hablara conmigo, lo habría deseado. Puede ser brusco y está fuera de práctica respecto a tratar con la gente, pero soy feliz con él y me gusta que lo único que parece necesitar de mí, es mi presencia. Es más feliz conmigo aquí. —No necesitas pelear contra mí, ¿de acuerdo? —le digo—. Mañana me iré a la casa de mi hermana y estaré más que bien. No tienes que preocuparte por mí. Nunca debí haberme quedado...

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  And last night I dreamed that I was at a feast. What can that mean but satisfaction? I will have a nap now, and then get myself ready for the game of the night.’ So when the first cock crowed, up sprung Absolon. He dressed himself in lover’s guise, all pert and polished, and he combed his hair. He sucked on some liquorice and cardamon seeds to sweeten his breath; cardamon is known as the grain of paradise. And paradise is what Absolon wanted. Then he popped under his tongue a four-leaved sprig of herb-paris, signifying the knot of true love, so that he might attract Alison by secret influence. Then he made his way to the house of the carpenter, and stood beneath the bedroom window. It was so low that it barely reached his chest. He leaned forward and gave a little cough. ‘Alison,’ he whispered, ‘my darling. My little honeycomb. My lovely bird. My sweet stick of cinnamon. Wake up, my sweetheart, and speak to me. You never think of my unhappiness, do you? I sweat for love of you. I really do. I faint. I repine. And, as I say, I sweat. Look at me. I am as famished as a lamb looking for its mother’s tits, if you’ll pardon the expression. I am lovelorn like the turtle. I eat less than a girl. Kiss me quick.’ ‘Fuck off!’ That was Alison’s reply. ‘Go away, you fool! Kiss you quick? You must be joking. God help me, you won’t get anything from me. I love someone else, in any case, who is far more of a man than you are. Go away now or I will throw something at you. Let me get some sleep. I need it. So go to hell!’ Absolon was in a miserable state. ‘Was ever true love so thoroughly abused?’ he asked her. ‘Could I be more miserable? Have pity on me, Alison, in my distress. Give me a little kiss. That’s the least you can do. For the love of Jesus, the man of sorrows, if not for love of me.’ ‘And, if I do,’ she said, ‘will you go away?’ ‘Yes. I will.’ ‘Then get ready. I must just do something first.’ She went over to the bed. ‘Keep quiet,’ she whispered to Nicholas. ‘And you will have a good laugh.’ Meanwhile Absolon had got down on his knees in front of the window. ‘I have scored,’ he said. ‘I don’t think she will stop at a kiss. Oh my sweetheart, be kind to me. Give me more.’ Then Alison opened the window in all haste. ‘Hurry up,’ she told him. ‘Come on. I don’t want the neighbours to see you.’ So Absolon wiped his mouth in preparation. It was very dark. It was still night, after all. ‘Here I am,’ said Alison. Then she put her naked arse out of the window.