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 Delta of Venus (1977)

  Everywhere he became the center of attraction for women. Like the most versatile of actors, he passed from one role to another to please the taste of each of them. He was the most elegant dancer, the most vivacious dinner partner, the most decadent of entertainers in tête-à-têtes; he could sail a boat, ride, drive. He knew each city as though he had lived there all his life. He knew everyone in society. He was indispensable. When he needed money he married a rich woman, plundered her and left for another country. Most of the time the women did not rebel or complain to the police. The few weeks or months they had enjoyed him as a husband left a sensation that was stronger than the shock of losing their money. For a moment they had known what it was to live with strong wings, to fly above the heads of mediocrity. He took them so high, whirled them so fast in his series of enchantments, that his departure still had something of the flight. It seemed almost natural—no partner could follow his great eagle sweeps. The free, uncapturable adventurer, jumping thus from one golden branch to another, almost fell into a trap, a trap of human love, when one night he met the Brazilian dancer Anita at a Peruvian theatre. Her elongated eyes did not close as other women’s eyes did, but like the eyes of tigers, pumas and leopards, the two lids meeting lazily and slowly; and they seemed slightly sewn together towards the nose, making them narrow, with a lascivious, oblique glance falling from them like the glance of a woman who does not want to see what is being done to her body. All this gave her an air of being made love to, which aroused the Baron as soon as he met her. When he went backstage to see her, she was dressing among a profusion of flowers; and for the delight of her admirers who sat around her, she was rouging her sex with her lipstick without permitting them to make a single gesture towards her. When the Baron came in she merely lifted her head and smiled at him. She had one foot on a little table, her elaborate Brazilian dress was lifted, and with her jeweled hands she took up rouging her sex again, laughing at the excitement of the men around her. Her sex was like a giant hothouse flower, larger than any the Baron had seen, and the hair around it abundant and curled, glossy black. It was these lips that she rouged as if they were a mouth, very elaborately so that they became like blood-red camellias, opened by force, showing the closed interior bud, a paler, fine-skinned core of the flower.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Eso está bien, ¿verdad? Es normal encontrar a otras personas atractivas. Eso sucede. Quiero decir, Scarlett Johansson es atractiva. Eso no quiere decir que esté interesada en ella. Mordisqueo de nuevo mi dona, mi mirada yendo a un lado de nuevo, observando sus brazos y los múltiples tatuajes. Engranajes y pernos, como el armazón de un robot, un trabajo tribal que definitivamente dice que fue un chico de los 90, y apenas puedo ver lo que creo es un reloj de bolsillo que parece que está tratando de romper su piel. Es como una mezcla sin ningún tema discernible, pero es un trabajo hermoso. Me pregunto cuál es la historia tras ellos. Tomo otro bocado, el glaseado rosa y las chispas arcoíris envían descargas eléctricas al fondo de mi boca, haciéndome querer meter toda la cosa en mi boca. —Sabes, de verdad me gustaría tener abdominales —comento, masticando—, pero estas están muy buenas. Suelta una carcajada, mirándome y riéndose. —¿Qué? —Nada. Simplemente eres... —Aparta la mirada como si buscara las palabras—. Eres solo, como, interesante o... ¿algo? —Sacude la cabeza—. Lo siento, no sé qué quiero decir. —Y entonces de la nada dice—: Linda. —Como si acabara de recordarlo—. Quiero decir que eres linda. Mi estómago da un vuelco, y el calor inunda mis mejillas como si estuviera de nuevo en quinto año, cuando era un halago tremendo que el chico que te gustaba te dijera que eras linda. Sé que habla de mi personalidad y no de mi apariencia, pero me gusta. Termina la dona y toma un sorbo de su soda. —Entonces, ¿qué edad tienes? —pregunta—. ¿Unos veintitrés, veinticuatro? —Claro, en un tiempo. Suelta una risa. —Diecinueve —respondo finalmente. Toma aire y suspira, hay algo extraño en su mirada. —¿Qué? —Tomo el último mordisco y rozo mis manos entre sí, apoyando e inclinando mi cabeza contra la silla. —Ser tan joven de nuevo —reflexiona—. Parece que fue ayer. Bueno, ¿qué edad podría tener? Diecinueve no pudo haber sido hace tanto para él. ¿Diez años? ¿Tal vez doce?

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

  After a moment or so, I say, You really need an agent. The problem that comes up over and over again is that these people want to be published. They kind of want to write, but they really want to be published. You’ll never get to where you want to be that way, I tell them. There is a door we all want to walk through, and writing can help you find it and open it. Writing can give you what having a baby can give you: it can get you to start paying attention, can help you soften, can wake you up. But publishing won’t do any of those things; you’ll never get in that way. My son, Sam, at three and a half, had these keys to a set of plastic handcuffs, and one morning he intentionally locked himself out of the house. I was sitting on the couch reading the newspaper when I heard him stick his plastic keys into the doorknob and try to open the door. Then I heard him say, “Oh, shit.” My whole face widened, like the guy in Edvard Munch’s Scream . After a moment I got up and opened the front door. “Honey,” I said, “what’d you just say?” “I said, ‘Oh, shit,’ ” he said. “But, honey, that’s a naughty word. Both of us have absolutely got to stop using it. Okay?” He hung his head for a moment, nodded, and said, “Okay, Mom.” Then he leaned forward and said confidentially, “But I’ll tell you why I said ‘shit.’ ” I said Okay, and he said, “Because of the fucking keys!” Fantasy keys won’t get you in. Almost every single thing you hope publication will do for you is a fantasy, a hologram—it’s the eagle on your credit card that only seems to soar. What’s real is that if you do your scales every day, if you slowly try harder and harder pieces, if you listen to great musicians play music you love, you’ll get better. At times when you’re working, you’ll sit there feeling hung over and bored, and you may or may not be able to pull yourself up out of it that day. But it is fantasy to think that successful writers do not have these bored, defeated hours, these hours of deep insecurity when one feels as small and jumpy as a water bug. They do. But they also often feel a great sense of amazement that they get to write, and they know that this is what they want to do for the rest of their lives. And so if one of your heart’s deepest longings is to write , there are ways to get your work done, and a number of reasons why it is important to do so.

• From Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity (1990)

  What does it mean to sustain a literalizing fantasy? If gender differentiation follows upon the incest taboo and the prior taboo on homosexuality, then “becoming” a gender is a laborious process of becoming naturalized, which requires a differentiation of bodily pleasures and parts on the basis of gendered meanings. Pleasures are said to reside in the penis, the vagina, and the breasts or to emanate from them, but such descriptions correspond to a body which has already been constructed or naturalized as gender-specific. In other words, some parts of the body become conceivable foci of pleasure precisely because they correspond to a normative ideal of a gender-specific body. Pleasures are in some sense determined by the melancholic structure of gender whereby some organs are deadened to pleasure, and others brought to life. Which pleasures shall live and which shall die is often a matter of which serve the legitimating practices of identity formation that take place within the matrix of gender norms.42 Transsexuals often claim a radical discontinuity between sexual pleasures and bodily parts. Very often what is wanted in terms of pleasure requires an imaginary participation in body parts, either appendages or orifices, that one might not actually possess, or, similarly, pleasure may require imagining an exaggerated or diminished set of parts. The imaginary status of desire, of course, is not restricted to the transsexual identity; the phantasmatic nature of desire reveals the body not as its ground or cause, but as its occasion and its object. The strategy of desire is in part the transfiguration of the desiring body itself. Indeed, in order to desire at all it may be necessary to believe in an altered bodily ego43 which, within the gendered rules of the imaginary, might fit the requirements of a body capable of desire. This imaginary condition of desire always exceeds the physical body through or on which it works. Always already a cultural sign, the body sets limits to the imaginary meanings that it occasions, but is never free of an imaginary construction. The fantasized body can never be understood in relation to the body as real; it can only be understood in relation to another culturally instituted fantasy, one which claims the place of the “literal” and the “real.” The limits to the “real” are produced within the naturalized heterosexualization of bodies in which physical facts serve as causes and desires reflect the inexorable effects of that physicality.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  Now. Do you remember Absolon, the love-struck parish clerk? On that Monday he was paying a visit to Osney Abbey, in the company of some other young clerics in festive mood. Quite by chance he came across the resident chorister there, and started to ask him about the old carpenter. He was always interested in that household. They were walking out of the church, when the chorister said to him, ‘I really don’t know what has happened to him. I haven’t seen him here since last Saturday. I imagine he has gone for timber somewhere. The abbot probably sent him. He often spends a day or two on one of the outlying farms, bargaining for the wood. Or else he is back at home. To tell you the truth, I don’t really know. Why do you ask?’ ‘No reason. Just curious.’ Absolon was delighted. ‘Now is the time,’ he said to himself, ‘when I must stay awake all night. I don’t think he’s at home at all. I did not see him stirring this morning. And the door was closed. Just before dawn I will creep up to the house and knock softly upon the low window of his bedroom beside the orchard wall. Then I will whisper sweet love nothings to darling Alison; the least I will be offered is a kiss. My lips have been itching all day, which is a good sign. 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.’

• From The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  They were all throwing in pieces of brush to keep the fire going, plus chunks of tire treads, and we cheered at the thick black rubber smoke that made our noses sting as it rolled past us into the air. Billy came up to me and pulled my arm, motioning me away from the other kids. He dug into his pocket and pulled out a turquoise and silver ring. “It’s for you,” he said. I took it and turned it over in my hand. Mom had a collection of turquoise and silver Indian jewelry that she kept at Grandma’s house so Dad wouldn’t pawn it. Most of it was antique and very valuable—some man from a museum in Phoenix kept trying to buy pieces from her—and when we visited Grandma, Mom would let me and Lori put on the heavy necklaces and bracelets and concha belts. Billy’s ring looked like one of Mom’s. I ran it across my teeth and tongue like Mom had taught me to. I could tell by the slightly bitter taste that it was real silver. “Where’d you get this?” I asked. “It used to be my mom’s,” Billy said. It sure was a pretty ring. It had a simple thin band and an oval-shaped piece of dark turquoise held in place by snaking silver strands. I didn’t have any jewelry and it had been a long time since anyone had given me a present, except for the planet Venus. I tried on the ring. It was way too big for my finger, but I could wrap yarn around the band the way high school girls did when they wore their boyfriend’s rings. I was afraid, however, that if I took the ring, Billy might start thinking that I had agreed to be his girlfriend. He’d tell all the other kids, and if I said it wasn’t true, he’d point to the ring. On the other hand, I figured Mom would approve, since accepting it would make Billy feel good about himself. I decided to compromise. “I’ll keep it,” I said. “But I’m not going to wear it.” Billy’s smile spread all across his face. “But don’t think this means we’re boyfriend and girlfriend,” I said. “And don’t think this means you can kiss me.” • • • I didn’t tell anyone about the ring, not even Brian. I kept it in my pants pocket during the day, and at night I hid it in the bottom of the cardboard box where I kept my clothes. But Billy Deel had to go and shoot his mouth off about giving me the ring. He started telling the other kids things like how, as soon as I was old enough, me and him were going to get married. When I found out what he was saying, I knew accepting the ring had been a big mistake. I also knew I should return it. But I didn’t.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  —¿Más caliente? —pregunto, sabiendo malditamente bien que su piel está caliente ahora. Siento su asentimiento y sé que tengo que detener esto. Lo dejé pasar demasiado tiempo. —Jordan, tenemos que detenernos. Pero puedo sentir que está empapada. Comienza a molerse contra mí, rodando ese culo suyo mientras sus palabras caen sobre mi frente. —Está bien —susurra—. Nadie tiene que saberlo. Comienza a montarme con la ropa puesta cada vez más rápido, sus gemidos son cada vez más fuertes y más pesados, y aquí estamos, solos, está oscuro, y nadie tiene que saberlo. —Jordan. —Jadeo, mi mundo inclinándose sobre su eje por el maldito placer— . Bebé, no podemos. ¿Qué estás haciendo? —Te pondré más duro. Sí, no, mierda. Me masturbo con más fuerza, el calor inunda mi ingle y el fuego se extiende desde mi estómago hasta mis muslos. Clava sus uñas en mis hombros, y aprieto sus caderas mientras se aleja de mí. —Bebé, tienes que detenerte —le ruego. Dios, me voy a correr. —Pero se siente tan bien cuando está duro. Sacudo la cabeza, susurrando contra sus labios. —No soy para ti. Algún otro hombre va a... No podemos. —No puedo detenerme —gime—. Por favor, no hagas que me detenga. Sus tetas sobresalen sobre mí y sus caderas se mueven, y es la maldita cosa más sexy que he visto en mi vida. Maldición, sí. —Bien. —Finalmente gruño y caigo de nuevo sobre la cama, todavía agarrando sus caderas mientras la cresta de mi polla se frota contra ella—. Dale a tu coño lo que desea. Chilla y cierra los ojos dejando caer sus manos sobre mis rodillas y tomando lo que quiere de mí.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Bueno, lo hice bien. Mi cabeza finalmente evoluciona hacia la perspectiva que tenía cuando la compré, y me siento menos torturado. Sumerge su dedo en una rosa y se lo lleva a la boca, chupando el azúcar. Mi mirada se congela, viendo la forma en que sus labios se fruncen y su lengua sale para lamer el pedacito de glaseado que queda en la punta. Gimo por dentro, incapaz de evitar preguntarme qué tan cálida es su boca. Me aclaro la garganta. —Eh, me olvidé por completo de las velas —lo admito, moviéndome al cajón detrás de mí—, pero sé que tienes que hacer esto, así que... Saco una caja de fósforos, al lado del sujetador para sartenes, y enciendo uno, voy a colocarlo en el centro del pastel, pero me detengo. —¿Deberíamos llamar a Cole? Mira por la ventana y luego hace un gesto con la mano restándole importancia. Coloco el fósforo en el pastel. Observo mientras cierra los ojos, exhala un suspiro y relaja sus hombros, y luego, lentamente, una pequeña sonrisa curva sus labios. Instintivamente, sonrío también, como si no supiera lo que está pensando, pero creo que sé lo que siente en ese momento. Apaga el fósforo y abre los ojos, la corriente de humo blanco ondea frente a su rostro. Me quedo a su lado por un momento, sin querer moverme. Alguien debería abrazarla ahora mismo. Alguien debería acercarse para pararse frente a ella, poner ambas manos en el mostrador a los lados, y sentir su aliento contra su rostro. Respiro un poco más rápido, imaginando a qué sabe. Y luego tomo la lata de refresco que había dejado en el mostrador y la empuño hasta que el aluminio se aplasta. Eso no es bueno. Esos pensamientos no son buenos. Me alejo, tragando tres veces para mojarme la garganta, y tomo el contenedor de cintas de casetes de mi camioneta del mostrador y lo deslizo a través de la isla hacia ella. —Y eso es para ti, cumpleañera —digo para distraerme de cualquier vibración que pueda haber estado emitiendo—. De nada.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Inclinando mi cabeza hacia atrás, mojo mi cabello y cierro mis ojos, sintiendo el calor del agua golpear mis hombros y cuello. Piel de gallina se extiende por mis brazos, y de repente mi cabeza nada con el placer del calor. Girándome, apoyo mis manos en la pared y muevo mi cabeza bajo el chorro, finalmente enderezándome de nuevo e inclinándome contra la pared detrás de mí mientras llevo mi cabello hacia atrás. Mi estómago se revuelve. Si Cole no estuviera en el panorama y Pike entrara en el bar una noche, se sentara en un taburete y hablara conmigo... me gustaría. Realmente me gustaría. Lo desearía. Cierro mis ojos con más fuerza. Dios, mi hermana tiene razón. Algo está sucediendo. Ha estado sucediendo, en realidad. ¿Todos los demás también lo notan? ¿Él lo nota? Mierda. Abriendo mis ojos, caen inmediatamente en su gel de ducha frente a mí colocado en la repisa de la regadera. Cole normalmente utiliza Axe, pero todavía no ha sacado sus cosas de la otra regadera, probablemente simplemente está utilizando el Irish Spring de su papá. Lanzo una mirada rápida hacia el cristal, asegurándome que estoy sola y tomo la botella del estante y abro la tapa. Quedan pocas burbujas alrededor de la abertura por las duchas de los chicos de esta mañana y cierro los ojos, llevando el gel de ducha de Pike a mi nariz. La fuerte fragancia llena mi cabeza y un hormigueo se extienden por mi piel. Es un jabón barato, pero no es de adorno, hace el trabajo y me recuerda a jeans, madera y el vello más corto de una barba incipiente en la mandíbula de un hombre. Es él. Mi garganta se hincha como si tomara un trago de agua y paso saliva, sintiéndome decepcionada porque no haya nada ahí. Lamo mis labios, respirando con dificultad. Suspendo a la realidad en alguna parte del fondo de mi mente y ausentemente dejo caer una gota del jabón en mi mano. Llevando mi mano a mi nariz, inhalo de nuevo, mi respiración entrecortándose, mis ojos cerrándose y mi clítoris pulsando inmediatamente. ¿Debería ir detrás de ella? Recuerdo su sonrisa extraña y engreída que me excitó anoche. No quería que fuera detrás de nadie, pero Dios, estoy desesperada por ver cómo se vería eso. ¿Cómo es con una chica?

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Puedo sentirla. Sus cálidas piernas moviéndose sobre las mías entre las sábanas, y está caliente y húmeda entre sus piernas mientras se mueve sobre mí. Agarro sus caderas y le doy la vuelta, quitándole las bragas, zambulléndome y tomándola en mi boca. Dios, sus gemidos son tan dulces y no quiero irme nunca de esta cama. No quiero hacer nada más que sentirla y saborearla, hacerla sonreír y sudar y correrse. Es mía. Pero de repente abro mis ojos, parpadeando ante la tenue luz de la madrugada. Estoy solo, y respiro profundo, persiguiendo su olor en mi sueño. Cierro mis ojos. —Jesús. —Jadeo, lamiendo mis labios. Empuño mi mano, aún sintiendo su trasero en mis palmas, necesitándola. Necesito tanto el mismo cuerpo suave que tuve en mis brazos la noche anterior que me duele la mandíbula por apretarla. Limpiando el sudor de mi cuello, bajo la mirada y veo mi polla haciendo una tienda de campaña con las sábanas. Mierda. Necesito echar un polvo. Eso es todo. Jordan no es especial. No lo es. Es una ardiente y joven mujer viviendo en mi casa y constantemente en mi mente, caminando por ahí en shorts cortos con sus largas piernas, su alegre trasero y labios que saben como un maldito durazno. Es como poner un filete frente a un pitbull 8 hambriento y decirle “no toques”. Gruño mientras mi polla se llena de sangre, endureciéndose aún más. Dios, ¿si la llamara y le dijera que viniera aquí justo en este momento, vendría? Estoy tentado a retirar lo que le dije la noche anterior, quiero recuperar tanto lo que tuve en mis manos. 8 Pitbull:Es una raza canina, originaria de Estados Unidos y descendiente del Bull-and-terrier, una mezcla entre el antiguo bulldog y terriers.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Aprieto mi polla como si mi vida dependiera de ello, siento sus caderas que sobresalen en mis manos, y me corro, tirando más y más fuerte a medida que me derramo. —Oh, maldición. ¡Maldición! —grito—. ¡Mierda! Oh, Dios mío. Dejo caer mi cabeza hacia la pared de la ducha, el semen se derrama y desacelero mi mano, con los músculos ardiendo mientras dejo salir el resto. Veo manchas detrás de mis ojos, pero aún puedo oler su sudor, y no quiero que se acabe. Quiero más. —Maldición —digo, lamiendo mis labios y forzándome a tragar saliva—. Mierda. Quiero más. No puedo recordar la última vez que me corrí de esa forma, pero aun así... no fue suficiente. Alejo mi mano de mi polla y cierro mis manos en puños, molesto. Se suponía que eso ayudaría, maldición. Se suponía que eso la sacaría de mi sistema. Siento que mi polla comienza a calentarse de nuevo, y me alejo de la pared, gruñendo. Golpeo el grifo con fuerza, apago el agua caliente y me enjuago. Solo necesito follar una cosa real. No a ella. Solo a alguien más. Me encerraré en una habitación de motel con una caja de condones y la sacaré de mi sistema. Sí. Eso es lo que haré. Esta semana. Lo lograré. Me estiro hacia el estante y coloco la mano en mi gancho, tomando lo que necesito para terminar de bañarme, pero no hay nada allí. No ha estado por días, de hecho, y frunzo el ceño, mirando a mi alrededor. —¿Dónde demonios está mi esponja?

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Apagué el cerillo anoche, deseando lo mismo que deseé en el cine aquella noche. Me encantó cómo me sentí en ese momento y esperaba poder sentirme de ese modo todos los días. Eso es todo lo que quería. No porque algo fuera diferente, o por algo que no tuviera, sino porque me sintiera exactamente igual al día siguiente. Y al siguiente. Especial, recordada, feliz. Él me hace feliz. Feliz de un modo en que mi novio debería hacerme. Pelando otra patata, lo veo moverse por el rabillo de mi ojo e intento detenerme, pero levanto la mirada de todos modos. Levantando sus brazos, se quita su camiseta azul marino y la pone en su bolsillo trasero, estirándose para levantar el cortador de ramas de nuevo. Por un momento, me congelo. Mis manos dejan de hacer su labor y los sonidos del cortador, la podadora de césped al otro lado de la calle y la música sonando en la cocina se desvanecen lentamente. Su piel, dorada y tonificada, se ve caliente y suave, los músculos de su estómago y las venas recorriendo sus antebrazos se presionan contra su piel, mostrando cuánto y cuán duro ha trabajado en su vida. El sudor se resbala por su cuello y espalda y puedo ver las ondulaciones de los músculos de su espalda. Incluso a través de los tatuajes. Largas piernas en jeans desgastados con su camiseta colgando de su bolsillo trasero y cubriendo parte de su... Humedezco mis labios mientras aparto la mirada de su trasero y observo la forma en que sus jeans cuelgan de sus caderas. Cada músculo se flexiona mientras corta rama tras rama y todo lo que puedo lograr son respiraciones cortas y superficiales mientras aún admiro la forma en que las piernas de su pantalón caen sobre sus botas marrones de construcción. El señor Lawson es sexy. Es capaz, con un cuerpo fuerte y me pregunto cómo se siente. ¿Cómo es con una mujer? Bajo mi mirada de nuevo. —Oh, eso es sexy. —Escucho decir a una voz. Parpadeo y muevo mi cabeza rápidamente, mirando detrás de mí. Cam. Está parada a un costado de la isla, atravesó la puerta de entrada sin que la escuchara. Tiene un antebrazo apoyado en el granito, inclinándose casualmente con una mirada divertida en su rostro.

• 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.