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.

Page 40 of 344 · 20 per page

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

  σπαργάνωμα, TO, = σπάργανον, A. B. 304, Phot.; cf. σπάργωσις. σπαργάω, fut. now, like ὀργάω, to be full to bursting, to swell, be ripe, μαστὸς σπαργῶν Eur. Bacch. 7o1, Cycl. 55; of a woman with child, Plat. Symp. 206D; or swelling with milk, μήτερες σπαργῶσαι Id. Rep. 460 C; on. τοὺς μαστοὺς ὑπὸ γάλακτος or γάλακτι Dion. H. 1. 79, Plut. 2. 320C. 2. to swell with humours, τὰ ἄνω .. σπ. Hipp. 1053 G: 3. of plants, Poll. 1. 230. II. metaph., like Lat. turgere, to swell with desire or passion, Plat. Phaedr. 256 A; περί τινος, πρός τι Plut. 2.585 C, 1100 A; ἐπί τι for a thing, Id. Artox. 3 :—absol. to wax wanton, be insolent, σπαργῶσαν .. τὴν ἀρχὴν ὁρῶν Plat. Legg. 692 A; ὀλιγαρχία Plut. Lycurg. 7; δῆμος Id. Comp. Per.c. Fab. 1. (An altered form of σφριγάω, and prob. Lat. turgeo has the same origin, Curt. p. 653: cf. also σφαραγέομαι.) σπαργέω, --σπαργάω, Hesych., v.1. Q. Sm. 14. 283. σπαργνόομαι, Ep, for σπαργανόομαι, acc. to some in Or, Sib. 8. 478. σπάργω, only once, in Ep. aor. 1,-- σπαργανόω, σπάρξαν ἐν φάρεϊ λευκῷ ἢ. Hom. Ap. 121. (This is the Root of σπάργανον, σπαργα- vow, etc.: the meaning of σπεῖρον, σπεῖρα, σπειρόω, bring them into connexion with these words.) σπάργωσις, 7, a swelling, distention, μαστῶν Diosc. 3. 41, and so prob. in 2,129, where the MSs. σπαργανώσεις. σπᾶρίζω. older form of σκαρίζω, acc. to Eust. 943. 13, Phot. omapvos, 7, dv, poét. for σπανός, σπάνιος, Aesch. Ag. 556. σπάρος [ἃ], a sea-fish, the gilt-head, sparus auratus, Epich. 24 Ahr., Matro ap. Ath. 136 C, Arist. H. A. 2. 17, 26. σπαρτα-γενής, ἔς, producing the shrub spartos, App. Hisp. 12. Σπαρτάκειος, a, ov, of Spartacus, Plut. Pomp. 31. σπαρτέον, verb. Adj. of omeipw, one must sow, Clem. Al. 188. σπάρτη, ἡ. --σπάρτον, a rope or cord of spartos (v. σπάρτος, 6), Ar. Av. 815 (with a play upon Sparta), cf. Cratin. Νέμ. 9, et ibi Meineke. II. like στάθμη, a plumbline, Hesych., cf. Alciphro 2. 4, 15: cf. σπάρτος 1. Σπάρτη, Dor. Σπάρτα, 7, Sparta in Laconia, Hom., etc. :—hence Adys., Σπάρτηθεν, from Sparta, Od.; Zrapryvde, to Sparta, Ib. :— Σπαρτιάτης, [a], ov, 6, a Spartan, Eur. Or. 457, Thuc., etc.; lon. --ἥτηϑ, ew, Hdt. τ. 65 :—fem. - ἅτις, ἐδος, (sub. γυνή) a Spartan woman, Eur. Andr. 596, etc.; (sub. χώρα) Laconia, Plut.; also as Adj., Sa. γυνή, χθών, yn Eur. Hel. 115, Or. 537, etc.; also Smaptias, ados, Steph. B :— Adj. Σπαρτιᾶτικός, 7, dv, Spartan, Paus. 6. 4, 10, Luc., etc. σπαρτίνη, ἡ, -- σπάρτη, Ael.N. A. 12. 43. σπάρτϊνος, 7, ον, made of σπάρτος, Cratin. Νέμ. 9. ubi v. Meineke. σπαρτίον, τό, Dim. of onaprov, a small cord, Ar. Pax 1247 ; Philippid. Aak.1; of the cords of a bedstead, Arist. Mechan. 25, 2, Poll. to. 26. ΤΙ. the tongue of a balance, Lat. ansa, agina, Arist. Mechan. Ἅ,. 1... Ὁ: III. -- σπάρτος 1, Diosc. 4. 158.

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

  χἄτίζω, fut. iow, like χατέω, used only in pres., to have need of, crave, c. gen. rei, νόστοιο χατίζων Od. 8. 156., 11. 350, cf. Il. 2. 225; c. gen. pers., Θέτις νύ τι σεῖο x. 18. 392; ἑρμηνέων x. Pind. O. 2. 154; ov σοῦ Eur. Heracl. 465 :—also absol., οὐδὲ χατίζων nor in want [of anything], Od. 22. 351, Il. 17. 221; χατίζων one who is in want, a needy, poor person, Hes. Op. 392. 2. to lack, be without, x. ἔργοιο, i. e. to be idle, Ib. 21.—The Med. or Pass. is commonly received into the text of Aesch. Ag. 304 after Heath and Pors., μὴ χατίζεσθαι for μὴ χαρίζεσθαι; Franz μὴ χρονίζεσθαι ; Well. μηχαρίζεσθαι. χἄτίς, ἡ, -- χητίς (prob. to be written χᾶτις, Dor.), Hesych. χαυλι-όδους, ὄδοντος, 6, 7, neut. -όδουν Arist. P. A. 3.1, 6: Us, of animals, with outstanding teeth or tusks, κάπρος x. (where most Mss. χαυλιόδων, contr. to the rule of Hdn. Epim. 208, that the correct forms are χαυλιόδους and χαυλιώδων), Hes. Sc. 387, cf. Arist. ].c., 3. 2, 4, al.; x. γένεθλα Opp. C. 3. 6. II. of the teeth, outstanding, tusky, ὀδόντες χαυλιόδοντες of the crocodile’s teeth, Hdt. 2. 68; but more commonly without ὀδόντας, τετράπουν χαυλιόδοντας φαῖνον of the hip- popotamus, Hdt. 2. 71, cf. Diod. 1. 35; so of other animals, Arist. H. A. Qepleyhiler Ap LL wh Aspire eS lig L/Atetce xatvak, ἄκος, 6, a braggart, liar, cheat, Hesych. χαυνιάζω, to cheat, Hesych.; but Coraés for χαυνιάζει' πλανᾷ reads xavvacer’ mada. Xavuvo-Aoyos and χαυνο-ποιός, = xavvat, Hesych. χαυνο-πολίτης, ov, 6, a gaping cit, a cockney, who swallows open- mouthed all that’s told him (cf. Κεχηναῖοι), Ar. Ach. 635; cf. Lob. Phryn. 601. χαυνό-πρωκτος, ov, wide-breeched, Ar. Ach. 104. χαῦνος, ἡ, ov, but os, ον in Plat. Legg. 728 E, Arist. Probl. 23. 29: (xatvw) :—properly, gaping: hence, of the consistence of bodies, porous, spongy, loose, Hipp. Aph. 1256, Plat. Polit. 282 E; of snow, Arist. Meteor. 2. 3, 37; opp. to στερρός, Id. Probl. 23, 29 :---τὸ χαῦνον Diod. 3. 14:—Adv. —-vws, of garments hanging Joosely, Hdn. 4. 15. II. metaph. wnsubstantial, empty, frivolous, νοῦς x., Solon Io. 8; πραπίς Pind. P. 2.112; κενεᾶν ἐλπίδων χαῦνον τέλος Id. N.8.78; χαῦνα φράσασθαι Solon 31 ; x. ποιεῖν τινα Plat. l.c.; χαύνους τὰς ψυχὰς καὶ θρασείας ποιεῖν conceited, Id. Lege. 728 E; ὁ μεγάλων ἑαυτὸν ἀξιῶν, ἀνάξιος ὦν, χαῦνος Arist. Eth. N. 4. 3, 6 ; cf. χαυνόω 11:—Ar. Av. 819 plays on the double sense. Xavvo-copdos, ov, loose and flaccid, Erotian. Χχαυνότηξ, NTOS, 7, Poronsness, sponginess, τῆς γῆς Xen. Oec. Ig, 11; τάφρου Plut. Pyrrh. 28; of snow, Id. 2. 649 C; of foam, Ib. 99 B. II. metaph. empty conceit, vanity, ἀνοήτου ψυχῆς Plat. Theaet. 175 B; opp. to μεγαλοψυχία, Arist. Eth. N. 2. 7, 7. χαυνό-φρων, Ppovos, ὃ, ἡ, -- χαλίφρων, Schol. Od. 4. 371.

• From The Tides of Lust (1973)

  “Oh.” The man scraped his broad shoe toes on the asphalt before the captain’s great bare ones. “I was just wondering. You got these . . . women hanging all over your ship. You wouldn’t know how a guy goes about pickin’ up some pussy in this town, would you? They gotta keep it somewhere.” The captain grinned. “I guess they got to.” “I caught a ride up from Cugarsville yesterday. Spent last night in the fucking doorway over there, and, shit—” He plucked at his denim crotch, “I don’t usually have no trouble, but—” and looked up and down the docks “—you got that little blonde headed girl, and the other one who was lookin’ in your window.” He glanced at Kirsten, near the water. “I thought you might know where to go.” “Like I said . . .” and wouldn’t say more. The man wrinkled his face. “You ain’t from around here, are you? You West Indian or something? That earring and the way you talk.” “Been through the West Indies,” the captain said. “Now, hey! A whole bunch of nigger boys fish out this dock. Some of them real nice. Two already said I could work for them. But I’d like to get on a boat going someplace. I know boats fair. You don’t got no work for me on your boat, Captain?” “Maybe.” The man cocked his head in surprise. “Only maybe, though. What’s your name?” “Robin.” He grinned. “Robby is what they call me.” He plucked at his pants again: large hands on knobby wrists, on long, thin arms: but the muscles are sharply shaped. “I just come up from this damn small town. It held on to my ass twenty-four years. But not no more. Twenty-four years, and I decided there wasn’t noplace that wasn’t better than where I was. Nothing but odd job work. Our boats just fish the harbor. Some field work. And what all.” His frown came back. “Only, I guess it’s a little easier to get laid in a town where the girls know what you can do.” A weak grin; some of his teeth are broken. “Sit out in the sun and keep it warm, boy.” The captain grins back. “They’ll smell it when they come by.” Robby’s smile did not quite surface. He said, “I guess that’s about all I can do.” “Which way did the woman go?” “Down that street.” The captain turned back to the dog. The children ran up to him as he started across the street. “The lady—” Kirsten said as they reached him, “—is pretty.” Gunner had shown her the wallet. And Robby called, “Hey, thanks for the job offer . . . I mean, if the maybe works out.” The dog lolloped before them. ‘The Hall of Mirrors’ windows were hung with maroon curtains. Niger floundered about the door.

• From The Tides of Lust (1973)

  He went back for the skirt. On his knees, he tried to buckle the heavy, hobbled belt. He began to nip her buttocks, stick his tongue into the wet crease, going lower to cover his nose in her smell. She turned sharply, brought her knee against his face. He fell back. “Filthy, stupid beast . . .” whispered, “. . . bring me your collar.” He brought the buckled strip of brass-studded leather. In the middle, a brass loop fastened to a plate fixed to the band. For the leash. He gave it to her. And she smiled, turning it around. Turning it. He breathed hard, slowly moving his hand over his hard-on. “Pussy . . .” he whispered. “Pussy . . . mama . . . pussy . . .” He reached for the little hair that was showing below the skirt. She pushed his hand away, still examining the strap. Suddenly he pushed forward, grabbed her around the shoulders, grunting. She beat at his chest, slapped the collar across his face: he mumbled, “Fuck-a-pussy . . . fuck-a-mama . . .” over bruised lips. He sank his red pole into her foaming slash. (But slashes don’t foam. Sometimes . . . sometimes? No. Sometimes everything . . .) She scratched his face, bit, spat at him. He brought her down, hard on the floor, so she cried out. Her leather grip raked his face, flailed his shoulders. Her thigh boots (he has only put one on her; she is wearing two now; and one glove.) flopped about his hips. He fell, hunching and hunching. She snarled and the sound opened to a roar; as he bit on her chest, he felt the strap go around his neck. “Dirty, smelly pig . . .” The buckle tinkles; the strap tightens across his windpipe. The buckle clicked closed. “Be quick, you filthy, stupid . . .” she whispers, at last. “We must be—” His cock caused her to cramp as her hand flailed. She hit the bottom of the painting. It crashes on its face. “—be ready for Proctor!” The sudden sound made Bull come. Perhaps in the painting she is only wearing one boot. And one glove. It is lying on its face. I cannot see. Proctor slapped Benny’s brown buttocks. “Pull your pecker out of that pussy. I need you.” Benny, groggy, pushed himself from Kirsten, rose unsteadily to his feet, bent to pull his pants up. It stuck out, all shiny. With heavy hands, he twisted at himself as he followed his master. The captain kneeled beside the girl. “Get up.” Groggy as Benny, she put her arms around the captain’s leg. The captain put his arm under her shoulder to support her. A black fisherman stepped over the near couple, stooped down and touched her right breast. “Hey,” at the captain, “how about lettin’ big Sambo at that cunt for a while, Captain? Sure would like some.”

• From The Tides of Lust (1973)

  Kim stood over the blonde girl. She caressed the yellow hair. Kirsten’s tongue parted dark silk, delved (below, Nazi’s tongue sank in, and her breath was harsh): Kim’s left leg quivered. Her eyes were not open. Her tongue pushed between her lips, pulled back suddenly, pushed slowly out again. She dropped her head, lifted Kirsten’s face in her hand. The rings of their mouths filled with doubled-back tongues pushing—then Kim’s, thrust hard. Her knees came down till her thighs brushed, then moved to press, Kirsten’s. Bull reached between them to work his fingers in the wet. The girls clung, sharing knees and lips. Breasts flattened on breasts, bellies flattened. Nazi and Bull pried in mingled black and blonde with tongues and fingers.

• From The Tides of Lust (1973)

  Benny tickled Proctor’s balls with one hand, reached through with the other to heft the black bag that swung below the impaled branch. “Catherine,” whispered Proctor, “hot little . . . bitch—Oh, fuck me, fuck the shit out of my ass, nigger!—she lives protected by priests, now. Ah—mistress to an archaic museum here at our cathedral. Suck it, Benny! She’s . . . ah . . . a recluse now, among yesterdays. I want to see her spread on an altar, worried by cocks of every size and color, running with come and urine . . .” “Ah . . .” the captain’s whisper. “Yes, that’s what you want. Ah . . . Ah . . . You must—” He put his bare foot between Proctor’s legs and moiled Benny’s unsheathed cock that the boy beat while his master toiled in his mouth. “. . . come with me!” Proctor grunted and swung his hips at Benny’s face. Benny held the black foot against himself. Proctor’s breath stormed by the captain’s ear. A snow storm on a pitchy night. Detonate a flash— The captain’s face fell, lips down, lay on the artist’s shoulder. Push the detonator, but no light. Shake the camera, in the cold. Still: no light— Proctor arched, with low grunts. The captain’s foot slipped in Benny’s lap. The captain raised his head, pulled out. He said, “Seven . . .” Proctor, putting his belt back through the front loops, frowns. —THE END— Black candles burned about the studio. The candleholder on the sill was a banal skull. On the corner of the table an interesting bronze dragon coiled and reared around its flickering wax. Proctor sat on the deerskin throw and leaned on the wall, forearms flattened on the points of his knees. His shirt was balled in the corner. The pelt tickled the edges of his boots. Benny and Niger played on the floor while the captain instructed. Proctor had stopped laughing, and now smiled. “You didn’t come when you fucked me,” he said. The captain gave a grunt, glanced back. He kicked at the two figures on the floor. “Hey, there. Give each other a rest.” Niger yipped. Benny pulled his mouth from the raw shaft. The black foreskin slipped forward to the bulge. “That’s right.” The captain buttoned his fly and walked over to the steps. “Didn’t want to bother you. I didn’t think you could tell.” He shrugged again. Proctor turned up his hands and returned a mock smile. “I’ve always wondered what the devil’s secret was.” “I’m the devil now?” “You’ll do.” “I’m tired out today,” the captain said. Proctor made a motion with his chin. The captain looked back. Benny and Niger were curled together. The long muzzle lay on the boy’s hip. Benny’s fist loosened before his eyes; his breath gentled. “You’ve tired them out. I think you must be the devil.” The captain grinned. Then he said, “I’ve come six times today. Is that why you think so?”

• From The Tides of Lust (1973)

  His head went back. The sensation mounted a spectrum without terminal. He opened his mouth and tried to scream with airless lungs. His face locked on a smile; the immobility was agony. “ Now what the hell you call yourself doing?” His calf, beyond unengulfable oceans, shook. One arm beat about his head. And a voice, a woman’s voice, pricked him with jewels of what was so much more than pleasure he could not define it. He sobbed (without voice), while she cried out in the darkness: CATHERINE FROM THE ALTAR: I could be crass and simply begin by saying: that I am sitting here on this stained napkin, my legs spread, a cross in one hand, a cock in the other, and still I have time to think, means (by definition, no?) you’ve failed. But I beg the point. Who can satisfy me? You, or you, or you? None of you comes at me with that complete, unbridled lust to which I would quite happily give myself up. I have seen more of it through a ship’s porthole hours ago than any of you can demonstrate. The rest of you arrive with variations of pride, resentment—Oh, Jonathan, that you blame on your obsession with me whatever imbalances mar your creation as proof of my culpability: for shame! That may be enough to keep a stiff dick or a sloppy box. I do, however, demand more than that, even without broaching the swamp of love that already you have so dishonestly touched your toe to—let’s be honest—not to prepare for the truth you had to tell, but to mask that other you have so unfairly left for me. Seven times between noon and midnight? Frankly, Captain—and I am sure more than one of you has had the thought trickle through—if the devil can’t accomplish that with ease, he isn’t much of a man. Had you set your task, Jonathan, as the rounded and rich rendering of the interface between the actual and the ideal, I would be bound, however reluctantly, to accept any amount of moral slippage. But what am I—what are any of us—to do with such concise and conscious striving after the false note, the mawkish, and the thin? No, the lack of interest you have shown in your satisfaction since sunset is indicative of something more. A new age? Perhaps it signals an inchoate uncertainty whether or not you really want to give up this present one. After all, it’s been quite good to you. It has granted you all these previous joys. Are you willing to relinquish them for the fifty-fifty possibility of pain or pleasure? As well as a certainty of the unpleasantness bound to accompany the adjustment period? What is required here, someplace between the kisses and the bites, the whips, the thrusting loins, the tensed buttocks, is one consciousness that will move freely to its own total engulfment in pleasure.

• From The Tides of Lust (1973)

  Robby crawled the gritty boards, his pants twisted up about his ankles. The little beast rode his ass, jutting its head down to gnaw the pursed sphincter. Blood lay on his thighs like red string. The brass door swung open before him, and he gazed down the dark chancel. The dog, rutting the gut-hung red-head, yapped to his left. To his right, the master, laboring on the thrashing worm, ground his heel in ashes. “Robby?” (A man’s voice from the shadows.) “Come in here a minute?” The man who stepped from the door had short white hair, wore jeans, and a work shirt. He smiled and held out his hand. Something scuttled by Robby’s knee, paused before Proctor, flattened on the cinders. The fingers bunched. It sprang through the air. Proctor caught the hand, grinned at Robby, winked. Then he walked back into the dark. Robby felt desire. He felt it, suddenly and surprisingly, like a violent bird in the gut. As he crawled the dark, it struck out through his body and shook him. “Do you see what they’re doing to her?” the voice asked, in front of him. The hunger that was pleasure twisted down his belly. The twisting thing was a blade. Was a fire. His teeth clicked. His lips drew back. His shoulders shook. The cinders chewed his left wrist, his right palm. And pleasure beat its wings all about his body, near to knocked him over. Sensations, which, had they been visual, would have been sparks and metal, danced on the back of his neck, showered his shoulders, rolled in the valley of his back and behind. Other voices about him now, mumbling: male, male, male, female, male. They blundered over and around each other. He crawled between them, sick with ecstasy. “Oh, this must be getting you horny, boy!” The pressure at his belly’s base struck in the muscles of his thigh and stomach. He doubled, hit the floor. “Tsk, tsk, tsk! You ought to get down there, boy, and rip off a piece of that! I hope you realize the trouble I’ve gone through to set this up!” Robby’s breath went out of him. His throat ached. His arms locked across his chest. His heels dragged up cold coals. His sides cramped. But the pain circled pleasure. Black pleasure (with its white after image) worked between each bone and tendon. His bones burned. His muscles melted. “Get with it! Don’t tell me you’re just going to lie there leaking all over your leg?” An explosion, long, slow, dark, and before it ended, centered in it, overwhelming it, an explosion that was light, and long, and did not end. “You’d make some fine jail-house pussy, boy! You know that? These guys that can come without even touching themselves . . .” His head went back. The sensation mounted a spectrum without terminal. He opened his mouth and tried to scream with airless lungs. His face locked on a smile; the immobility was agony. “Now what the hell you call yourself doing?” His calf, beyond unengulfable oceans, shook. One arm beat about his head. And a voice, a woman’s voice, pricked him with jewels of what was so much more than pleasure he could not define it. He sobbed (without voice), while she cried out in the darkness:

• From The Tides of Lust (1973)

  And I was at that party where, maybe, ten of us who was working on the road crew got into her back of the garage. But she just wanted to make trouble for me, and take advantage of the rumor going round that Bull was instant babies. So I moved a town over. And I met that guy your boss is after. Things been pretty good since. He was the first person in this town I really talked to. And after a couple of weeks, when I’d got work—in the police office, not out on the road—I asked him, “Hey, did you tell anybody to give me that job?” He said no. “What have you been doing for me?” I asked. “You been talkin’ to the people up on Colson Hill?” And he said, “No. Just listening to you.” “You been telling me things too, though,” I told him. He said, “It has to do with the way I listen.” He knows a lot of people, in this town, in other places. They even come to see him. He listens to a lot of people, I guess. And it changes things. I been lawman here for almost three years. And it’s been a good sight more peaceful town. I asked him if he thought I ought to take the job—got it by being deputy first. “Why not?” he said. I said, “Well, someone like me, you know . . .” He said, “How’s being instant babies gonna hurt your being law?” And you know something, we don’t hardly have any women criminals in this whole town no more. (He picks the gun up. The barrel taps the floor; he rears back on the chair, the dark stock flattening his thigh.) Bethy threw another little bitch. Shit, she must be six or seven years old now herself, though I ain’t been back much. I sure would like to get back there and take a look at her. You think a little girl six or seven could take my dick? Little girl gettin’ knocked up by her pappy ain’t all that bad. Or her grand-pappy. I like it sweet and smooth and young. Or real rough, one. Ain’t too far from here. And sometimes I just get to thinkin’, about that sweet little pussy waitin’ over there in the next town for me, someplace, you know? Gunner pulled the blanket from his shoulder, because it had moved enough to wake him. And calloused fingers ploughed his hair, locked behind his neck. “Suck it . . .” in a bear’s growl, roughed with sleep. His face came up against harsh cloth that stank, crisp hair, and a cock slippery with mucus. Grunts; legs locked him. He grabbed the buttocks that lifted into his face. Someone nuzzled between his legs; his legs opened. “Right, boy! Suck it!”

• From The Tides of Lust (1973)

  Certainly more prepossessing than Pietro, and closer to me in education, he still struck me as insufferably dull. And against his brilliant and witty step-mother, he made a poor showing. But he was occupied with his tutor most of the week. “As I began to meet the middle classes of the town, tolerant of my poor clothes for the novelty of my alien intellect, I began to pick up the inevitable rumors that run about such persons as the Duchessa Catherine. Contradictions are their essence. She was a deeply wise woman—her mentality was exhausted in merely conversational wit, verbal veneer. She was the best of wives to il Duce and on three occasions had saved his newly grown fortunes—their marriage was only show, and she had forbidden her husband to touch her since a miscarriage some years past; now she took satisfaction with only the lowest men, most of them strangers that the duke himself first welcomed to the house; then, anywhere from next month-to-morning, said stranger would be expelled from the town with direst threats. I began to discover the truth of all these during an afternoon when the duke suggested over coffee in the south gardens that I and the Duchessa go riding. He would nap. We went to bridle the horses. The stable man was asleep, as it was the Italian siesta—a custom that Catherine prided herself on not observing. As she was harnessing her mare, the horse reared. She fell back. I caught her shoulders and felt her wriggle against me, as she tried to catch balance. She felt my response: her breath quickened. I kissed her ear. “I pushed my tongue in her ear. Her breathing stopped. I laughed; and her hand reached mine. Then, with her brown hair falling all over me, I lay with her in the hay beneath the mare who pawed above us and winnied at our love-making. I held her face between my hands between my legs; she sucked. I had her front, finished her back; she panted and clutched the straw. “Later we lay there, talking lazily, and the talk became personal: she told me of her ‘indiscretions,’ and I recounted some of my travels—I edited them; nevertheless, I made her titter with excitement when I described Tossi and the peasant girl at the last party at Zurich, or what Olaf had forced the Count to do when the young Swedish sailor was drunk one morning; the older man had protested then, but confided his pleasure to me later. She vowed she would have done the same as he. Then, on caprice, I told her of my present situation. When I recounted how I passed my nights, she was enthralled. Remembering my hosts’ claim that they cared not the sex of who sucked, I challenged her curiosity with an invitation.

• From The Tides of Lust (1973)

  Robby crawled the gritty boards, his pants twisted up about his ankles. The little beast rode his ass, jutting its head down to gnaw the pursed sphincter. Blood lay on his thighs like red string. The brass door swung open before him, and he gazed down the dark chancel. The dog, rutting the gut-hung red-head, yapped to his left. To his right, the master, laboring on the thrashing worm, ground his heel in ashes. “Robby?” (A man’s voice from the shadows.) “Come in here a minute?” The man who stepped from the door had short white hair, wore jeans, and a work shirt. He smiled and held out his hand. Something scuttled by Robby’s knee, paused before Proctor, flattened on the cinders. The fingers bunched. It sprang through the air. Proctor caught the hand, grinned at Robby, winked. Then he walked back into the dark. Robby felt desire. He felt it, suddenly and surprisingly, like a violent bird in the gut. As he crawled the dark, it struck out through his body and shook him. “Do you see what they’re doing to her?” the voice asked, in front of him. The hunger that was pleasure twisted down his belly. The twisting thing was a blade. Was a fire. His teeth clicked. His lips drew back. His shoulders shook. The cinders chewed his left wrist, his right palm. And pleasure beat its wings all about his body, near to knocked him over. Sensations, which, had they been visual, would have been sparks and metal, danced on the back of his neck, showered his shoulders, rolled in the valley of his back and behind. Other voices about him now, mumbling: male, male, male, female, male. They blundered over and around each other. He crawled between them, sick with ecstasy. “Oh, this must be getting you horny, boy!” The pressure at his belly’s base struck in the muscles of his thigh and stomach. He doubled, hit the floor. “Tsk, tsk, tsk! You ought to get down there, boy, and rip off a piece of that! I hope you realize the trouble I’ve gone through to set this up!” Robby’s breath went out of him. His throat ached. His arms locked across his chest. His heels dragged up cold coals. His sides cramped. But the pain circled pleasure. Black pleasure (with its white after image) worked between each bone and tendon. His bones burned. His muscles melted. “Get with it! Don’t tell me you’re just going to lie there leaking all over your leg?” An explosion, long, slow, dark, and before it ended, centered in it, overwhelming it, an explosion that was light, and long, and did not end. “You’d make some fine jail-house pussy, boy! You know that? These guys that can come without even touching themselves . . .” His head went back. The sensation mounted a spectrum without terminal. He opened his mouth and tried to scream with airless lungs. His face locked on a smile; the immobility was agony. “Now what the hell you call yourself doing?” His calf, beyond unengulfable oceans, shook. One arm beat about his head. And a voice, a woman’s voice, pricked him with jewels of what was so much more than pleasure he could not define it. He sobbed (without voice), while she cried out in the darkness:

• From The Tides of Lust (1973)

  Certainly more prepossessing than Pietro, and closer to me in education, he still struck me as insufferably dull. And against his brilliant and witty step-mother, he made a poor showing. But he was occupied with his tutor most of the week. “As I began to meet the middle classes of the town, tolerant of my poor clothes for the novelty of my alien intellect, I began to pick up the inevitable rumors that run about such persons as the Duchessa Catherine. Contradictions are their essence. She was a deeply wise woman—her mentality was exhausted in merely conversational wit, verbal veneer. She was the best of wives to il Duce and on three occasions had saved his newly grown fortunes—their marriage was only show, and she had forbidden her husband to touch her since a miscarriage some years past; now she took satisfaction with only the lowest men, most of them strangers that the duke himself first welcomed to the house; then, anywhere from next month-to-morning, said stranger would be expelled from the town with direst threats. I began to discover the truth of all these during an afternoon when the duke suggested over coffee in the south gardens that I and the Duchessa go riding. He would nap. We went to bridle the horses. The stable man was asleep, as it was the Italian siesta—a custom that Catherine prided herself on not observing. As she was harnessing her mare, the horse reared. She fell back. I caught her shoulders and felt her wriggle against me, as she tried to catch balance. She felt my response: her breath quickened. I kissed her ear. “I pushed my tongue in her ear. Her breathing stopped. I laughed; and her hand reached mine. Then, with her brown hair falling all over me, I lay with her in the hay beneath the mare who pawed above us and winnied at our love-making. I held her face between my hands between my legs; she sucked. I had her front, finished her back; she panted and clutched the straw. “Later we lay there, talking lazily, and the talk became personal: she told me of her ‘indiscretions,’ and I recounted some of my travels—I edited them; nevertheless, I made her titter with excitement when I described Tossi and the peasant girl at the last party at Zurich, or what Olaf had forced the Count to do when the young Swedish sailor was drunk one morning; the older man had protested then, but confided his pleasure to me later. She vowed she would have done the same as he. Then, on caprice, I told her of my present situation. When I recounted how I passed my nights, she was enthralled. Remembering my hosts’ claim that they cared not the sex of who sucked, I challenged her curiosity with an invitation.

• From The Tides of Lust (1973)

  When they was about old as you I found their mamas. The black one was workin’ for a woman up on Colson Hill. The white one, she just takin’ to hangin’ around the docks again. Her ol’ man had just Kicked her off one of the snapper boats down the other end of the Horseshoe. We all got together on my boat, with a lot of liquor. The old ladies are goin’ on about What fine boys Nig and Dove turned out. [Sambo narrows his lids over ivory colored balls.] Back then, lemme see, Nig was about this big—[Sambo measures out a length from the tip of his middle finger to the middle of his palm]—Dove was maybe a half an inch longer, though Nig caught up. First I sicked that little black boy on the white bitch, while I sit in the corner with my cock up Dove’s ass. And the black bitch was down between our knees, just a suckin’ his red pecker. When Nig got up to go get a drink, I caught hold of his black ass, he come staggering by. ’Fore I had it half in, Dove’s mama had her blonde head wrapped around that chocolate bar. Soon as I let Dove go he had that black bitch on the floor just tearin’ up some pussy. “Hey, there,” I kept whispering in Nig’s ear, “how you like watchin’ your brother givin’ it to your mama, hey, boy?” Black bastard squirmed so hard he got my load three times. Later, me and Dove took turns workin’ on Dove’s mama while she moaned and kicked her legs around his ears. And Nig was eatin’ out his mama’s old black pussy like Hershey chocolate. After a while I went over to help Nig, and left Dove’s pink ass fallin’ on his mama’s box like a bouncy ball. Nig and I hauled that black bitch all over the cabin and the deck: me in one end and the boy in the other. Or [He snaps his fingers.] the other way around. After I’d kicked the bitches off the boat, and we’d gone to sleep, I remember I was havin’ this real fine dream, and sort of reachin’ down to scratch it, only there was Dove. He’d got my pants open and was just a workin’ away on the old pecker. Nig was all curled up naked against my back and didn’t even wake up. Dove had wrapped his legs around one of mine and rubbin’ off like a pink-assed puppy. I said, “Hey, what the hell are you . . .” Then I just lay back, and stuck my finger in his ear while he did it. A couple of seconds after I come his little butt locked and then he brought his hand from between his legs, all strong and sticky; lickin’ his fingers. “Hey,” I said. He looked up at me, his tongue workin’ down between his knuckles.

• From The Tides of Lust (1973)

  Though I look over all your assembled faces, from the most demented rapist to the once-a-Sunday diddler who retires to the john with dirty novels, the self-consciousness in all of you prohibits just that step, that one extension of the will which causes not the fantasy to become concrete—for that happens all the time, and we pay for it—rather for the concrete to crumble with the advent of the fantastic. That is revolution. Lord, my crotch aches for it. I would have you all until I passed out if I thought there were the least chance of giving birth to it. You accuse me, Jonathan, of having gone on to stranger pastimes. Alas, I have only had to come to terms with the facts. You, who are the most timid, Master Proctor, are so terribly much closer to the efficacious being you seek to present me with. The confusion between Faust and his Demon is private as well as public. No, Captain, you will definitely not do. There now, your vanity certainly can’t be wounded. Perhaps I simply cannot satisfy you; I dare say if I presented that image of totally engaged lust I demand you to be, your balls would empty themselves in three thrusts. For it is the mystic, black devil who must be satisfied for the new age to begin—what a magnificent vindication for the poor violated girl on the parish sitting-room couch. She died, you know, twenty minutes after the priest left. I, who loved her, mourn her with this orgy. I am the one who has failed, if it makes you feel better. But commence a little sucking, fucking, shit-licking and the like; somewhere in this world there are creatures deranged with the desire for their own satisfaction, and in honor of their lust, I jam your cock between my legs, thrust my tongue up your pussy: and I try to forget that they are not among our number. We only imitate them, fantasize them as our masters or slaves, inform the momentary object of our passion with their attributes. With them, Captain, is the key to that most frightening of tomorrows. Kiss me. And Jonathan, you will remember each modeled thigh, each shadowed breast, the moonlight through the stained glass on the sweaty rumps and heels; remember it and render it in pigments submitted to the most exacting aesthetic on sized panels of masonite.

• From The Tides of Lust (1973)

  The dog hobbled the whining blind woman across the floor. The dragon reared and pranced beneath the Negro, nearing. Robby crawled the gritty boards, his pants twisted up about his ankles. The little beast rode his ass, jutting its head down to gnaw the pursed sphincter. Blood lay on his thighs like red string. The brass door swung open before him, and he gazed down the dark chancel. The dog, rutting the gut-hung red-head, yapped to his left. To his right, the master, laboring on the thrashing worm, ground his heel in ashes. “Robby?” (A man’s voice from the shadows.) “Come in here a minute?” The man who stepped from the door had short white hair, wore jeans, and a work shirt. He smiled and held out his hand. Something scuttled by Robby’s knee, paused before Proctor, flattened on the cinders. The fingers bunched. It sprang through the air. Proctor caught the hand, grinned at Robby, winked. Then he walked back into the dark. Robby felt desire. He felt it, suddenly and surprisingly, like a violent bird in the gut. As he crawled the dark, it struck out through his body and shook him. “Do you see what they’re doing to her?” the voice asked, in front of him. The hunger that was pleasure twisted down his belly. The twisting thing was a blade. Was a fire. His teeth clicked. His lips drew back. His shoulders shook. The cinders chewed his left wrist, his right palm. And pleasure beat its wings all about his body, near to knocked him over. Sensations, which, had they been visual, would have been sparks and metal, danced on the back of his neck, showered his shoulders, rolled in the valley of his back and behind. Other voices about him now, mumbling: male, male, male, female, male. They blundered over and around each other. He crawled between them, sick with ecstasy. “Oh, this must be getting you horny, boy!” The pressure at his belly’s base struck in the muscles of his thigh and stomach. He doubled, hit the floor. “Tsk, tsk, tsk! You ought to get down there, boy, and rip off a piece of that! I hope you realize the trouble I’ve gone through to set this up!” Robby’s breath went out of him. His throat ached. His arms locked across his chest. His heels dragged up cold coals. His sides cramped. But the pain circled pleasure. Black pleasure (with its white after image) worked between each bone and tendon. His bones burned. His muscles melted. “Get with it! Don’t tell me you’re just going to lie there leaking all over your leg?” An explosion, long, slow, dark, and before it ended, centered in it, overwhelming it, an explosion that was light, and long, and did not end. “You’d make some fine jail-house pussy, boy! You know that? These guys that can come without even touching themselves . . .”

• From The Tides of Lust (1973)

  Gunner looked at his lap. The captain slipped two fingers into the buttonless fly. Gunner looked up. “I did not!” But grinned. “What did you do?” “I nosed her to see if I could smell anything you’d left there.” He touched the captain’s knee. Small hand: it has callouses from boat work, the nails quick bitten. His grin fell open into a smile. “Got my face wet. And she wouldn’t let go my head.” “Did she kiss you back between your legs?” “She wanted to. But I hid him in my hands.” Gunner pulled apart his fly. Johnny jumped. Little brass wires snarled through the captain’s fingers. Gunner frowned. “It’s not half as long as yours.” Maroon and purple: suede and velvet. “You’re not half as old as I am. He’s big enough for you, boy. You still need both hands to hide him when he’s hard. Hey, take care of me. A couple or three times.” Gunner picked the captain’s up. The captain pushed his fingers under Gunner’s rope belt. Most loops were broken. The waist pulled down on the boy’s buttocks. The captain lay his finger in the hot slip. “You want my mouth?” Gunner dug the black fruit up, “That’s why you wake me up?” “So.” “Suppose I’m not thirsty.” “You?” Gunner bent. The head rose and blunted on his mouth. Black hand grapples gold hair, pulls the boy up, gasping. “That’s not where I want it—” “Captain . . . ?” The black hand, kneading Gunner’s buttocks, worked to the boy’s belly. White and black fingers worked on the knot. As it came loose, he pushed the boy’s head forward. He swung his leg back and kicked. The boy fell on the small rug. Knot undone, his trousers slipped to his knees. The captain stood. He worked his thumb into the sweaty crevice siding his groin; swung like a crane. He stepped from the eight his pants made at his ankles. Brass ring in his left ear (leather banding his right wrist), the heavy black chain on his left ankle. (That’s all.) He stood above the boy. Gunner stared. The captain put his foot between the boy’s legs. The groin was hot on the knuckles of his toes. Toes rose to prod the crack. He got down on his knees. Gunner licked his fingers and wiped between his legs. “Lemme stick it up before—” The captain knocked Gunner’s hand away. “It’s slick enough.” He pushed, swiveled forward inches more, pushed straight again. Gunner stopped breathing. The captain put his arms around Gunner’s chest. Once the boy barked in pain. The captain slid his hand between their bellies. “You’re stiff as a ten penny. It doesn’t hurt that much.” His hips hunched. Gunner caught his breath again. But no sound. Backed and squirmed on it. The captain’s breath roared around his head like a rasp in a clay pipe: Gunner puppy-pants.

• From The Tides of Lust (1973)

  Unable to the double weight, their arms bent. The captain pulled him onto the floor. On his side, first; then, with Gunner, breath nearly out of him, the captain flexed. He lay on his side, thrust in Gunner’s gut, while the boy, on his back, to the hips’ rocking, pulled at himself. Gunner’s head pressed back on the captain’s chest. His feet bunched the rug between the black knees. Raised himself. Lowered himself. Gas growled out around him. Something small gave before the plunging, became hot paste. The captain stirred in the tight tunnel. He had a mouth full of Gunner’s hair; he held the boy with one hand. Two fingers from the other in Gunner’s mouth, a tongue grazing their salt and horn. In a salt cave the thrower flames. The captain panted. “Five . . . for me, now.” Gunner’s fist still swung at his groin. The captain closed the boy’s fist in his to stop it. “Hold off unless you want to go again.” Gunner, still now, asked, “You messed in Kirsten all day. You still want to squeeze more out of these?” Sitting on the captain’s hips, he reached between both their legs and picked up the big sack. The captain laughed. He pushed Gunner’s cheeks. “Get up. Go on.” Making a face, the boy eased forward. Soft, it slapped the captain’s thigh. Gunner turned and scratched himself. “How many more you got?” The captain folded his arms behind his head. “Another couple.” He stretched. “Work me over.” The boy blinked. The captain raised his head. “Lick my foot. Come on, get that look off. I want to see you lick my foot. Last week I saw you lick at Niger behind the locker. You can with a dog, you can with my foot. Go on.” Gunner held the calloused rim, laid his cheek on it. The captain felt the lips tickle the instep. Tongue fell from the boy’s mouth; moved on the rough ball, found the trough before the toes; bladed between the big toe and the next, moved over the thick nail. Gunner took three toes in his mouth. The captain wriggled them, laughed. “Niger left his pile on the foredeck. I stepped in it before I came down here—don’t pull back. Clean it. Look at you. Look what that does to you. Look good for me, boy.” His knee bent, and the boy’s lips whispered on his ankle, wrapped the chain, stuck tongue in the links. Gunner’s fingers spread on his belly, moved jerkily to his tight yellow hair. The head, grey as a pale grape, pushed from its ivory cap. “Work, boy!” The captain pulled his foot back, kicked Gunner’s face. He laughed. Gunner’s knees struck the rug. He opened his mouth on the dark thigh. The captain caught the boy’s hair, yanked him down. Claws on the passage steps— —Niger sprang through the door, vaulted on his hind legs, pawed the captain’s knee.

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

  Χρή, Χρῇϑ, -- χρήζει, χρήζεις, ν. sub χράω (B) IIL. 2. χρήεσσι, ν. sub χρέος. χρήζω, fut. χρήσω Tim. Locr. 99 A; but in Att. hardly used save in pres., and impf, (but v. infr. 11): Ep. and Ion. χρηίζω, as always in Hom., and so Bekk. and Dind. read in Hdt., though both forms occur in the Mss.: Dor. χρήσδω Theocr. 8. 11; Megar. Dor. χρήδδω Ar. Ach. 734:—fut. χρήσω, Ion. xpnicw Tim. Locr. 99 A, Hadt. 7. 38:— aor. Ion. xpnica, xpnioas Id. 5.65, 20: (xpaw (B).) To need, want, lack, have need of, c. gen., χρηΐζοντα .. ἰητῆρος 1]. 11. 835; εἴ- pero .. ὅττευ χρηίζων ἱκόμην Od. 17. 121, 558; οὐδ᾽ ἐμοῦ διδασκάλου χρήζεις Aesch. Pr. 374:—absol. in part. χρηίζων lacking, needy, poor, Od. 11. 340, Hes. Op. 349. 2. to desire, long for, ask for, crave, desire, xpnicew ἀπεόντος Ib. 365; τοῦτον ὧν δοκέω... ποιήσειν ὧν ἂν χρηίζωμεν Hdt. 5. 30; χρημάτων xp. Id. 9.87; xp. βορᾶς Aesch. Cho. 530; Tod μακροῦ xp. βίου Soph. Aj. 473 :—rarely c. acc. rei, πᾶν μᾶλλον δοκέων μιν xpnioev ἢ τὸ ἐδεήθη Hat. 7. 38; ὥστ᾽ ἄλλα χρήζειν Soph. O. T. 595, cf. Eur. Supp. 123 ;—in most cases an inf. may be supplied, φράζ᾽ 6 τι χρήζεις (sc. φράζειν) Ar. Nub. 359, cf. 453; ἴθ᾽ ὅποι χρήζεις (sc. ἰέναι) Ib. 891, cf. Thesm. 751, Aesch. Pr. 928, Soph. O. T. 365, 622, O. C. 643. b. c. acc. pers. et inf. fo ask or desire that one should do a thing, Hdt. 1. 41, 112, 152, al.; so also c. gen. pers. et inf. to desire of one to do, Id. 5. 19, 65., 9. 553 in Att., c. inf. only, to desire to do a thing, Aesch. Pr. 233, 283, al., Soph. O. T. 91, Eur. Hec. 347, etc.; but rare in Prose, as Thuc. 3. 109, Xen. Cyr. 1. 6, 15, Arist. Plant. 1. 1, 21. 6. c. dupl. gen. pers. et rei, τῶνδε ἐγὼ ὑμέων χρηίζων συνέλεξα Hdt. 7. 53; so, χρήζειν παρά τινος Vita Hom. 17. 8. μὴ γᾶς ἐπὶ ἐένας θανεῖν ἔχρῃζες in Soph. Ο. C. 1713, is explained, O that thou hadst not desired to die.. ,—a very unusual construction; cf. émwpéAnoa for ὥφελον (supr. 541) ;— Dind. and Wunder reject the line, as interpolated from 1705. 4. the part. χρήζων is used 4050]. for εἰ χρήζει, if one will, if one chooses, Theogn. 952, Aesch. Cho. 340; ἄλλα φανεῖ χρήζων (sc. Ἑρμῆς) if pro- pitious, Ib. 815; εἰ θεὸν χρήζοντ᾽ ἔχει Eur. Supp. 597 :—also, τὸ χρῇζον your solicitation, Eur.I. A. 1017; cf. Jelf Gr. Gr. 436 Obs. 4. nore Pass. χρῃσθείς being asked or required, as Herm. reads in Soph, Ant. 24; perh. it may be χρησθείς, aor. pass. of χράω (0). A, being warned (as by an oracle): but the word can hardly be correct ; Campbell suggests mpobets.—Cf. χρηΐσκομαι. χρήζω, = χράζω (0), to deliver an oracle, foretell, only in Eur. Hel.

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

  297: cf. ἐπιχράω 8. ΤΙ. c. acc. rei, ¢o inflict upon a person, κακὸν δέ of ἔχραε κοῖτον Nic. Th. 315. III. c. inf. to be bent on doing, to be eager to do, τίπτε σὸς vids ἐμὸν ῥόον ἔχραε κήδειν ; why was he so eager to vex my stream? Il. 21. 369; μνηστῆρες... οἱ τόδε poke ἐχράετ᾽ ἐσθιέμεν καὶ πινέμεν ye suitors.., who were so eager to .., Od. 21. 69. 2. to this must also be referred the forms χρῆς, Xp formed like λῇς, λῇ from Adw, διψῇς, -ἢ, πεινῇς, --ἴ from διψάω, πεινάω, and expl. (by Hesych. and Schol. Soph. Ant. 887) by θέλεις χρήζεις, θέλει χρήζει :—these forms have been restored by Dind. and other Edd. in several passages for χρή, εἴτε χρῇ θανεῖν whether she desires to die, Soph, Ant. 887; σοὶ δὲ δρᾶν ἔξεσθ᾽ ἃ χρῇς Id. Aj. 1373; εἴτε χρῇς (sc. κηρύσσειν με) Id. El. 606 ; πρὸς ταῦθ᾽ ὅ τι χρῇ καὶ παλα- μάσθω Eur. Fr. glo; πάρα δ᾽ ἄλλ᾽ 6 τι χρῇς Cratin. Nop. 2; so, οὐ χρῇσθα (sc. φωνεῖν); Ar. Ach. 778. (xpns, χρῇ must be of kin to χρήζω, and therefore perh. to χράω (0), Xpaopat.) χράω (C). The Radical sense of this word is 20 furnish what is needful: and the connexion of the different senses may be seen by looking to the head of each principal division, (From this Root come χρηστός, χρῆμα, χρή, χρεών, χρέος and χρεῖος, χρέω and χρειώ, χρεία ; cf. χράω (B). .)

• From The Tides of Lust (1973)

  Enough. I have evoked your mythic virility with which to challenge her. But I see our number has grown considerably, even while I maunder her. Then come. Bull, here are the keys. To the cellar, to leash the beast. Nazi, you know the haunts of Nig and Dove. Up, up, all of you. Before I lay a stick to you. Come, we are ready to hunt her! Kirsten ran her finger around her left nipple as she stepped into the hall and lazily thought about her brother. She hung back from the hulking black ahead of her. His juices still drooled her thighs and made them slip. She caught sight of the long-armed, curly-headed boy; moved beside him. “Gunner . . .” whispered, and he turned, grinning at her like a gold cat. She took his hand, and suddenly he put his mouth on hers. She sucked in his tongue, and they stopped walking. She leaned against the wall and saw the others passing behind his shoulder, so closed her eyes. She touched his chest, let her hand slip to his trousers. He was bunching up her skirt. He liked it, because his tongue moved harder in her mouth. She pulled him back against the wall. “Hey,” he whispered, “any white man’s come in there?” She nodded, giggling. “But it’s way at the back.” Gunner took out his hand, licked, and a moment later dropped to his knees. Tongue and nose nuzzled deep in her. She held back the hem of her smock to watch him pry. She reached down to touch his scabbing shoulder, but he winced and knocked her hand away. So she closed her eyes and let thoughts drift with the thrust and warmth rising from the hard bud on the fore roof. He stood again, panting and wet to the eyes. She took his upswung cock and pulled her to him, lifted one leg, and guided, while he lay against her and butted at the opening. They both gasped when it slid. She held him about his shoulders, thrusting back to his thrusts, stroking his hair, while, with opposed rhythms, he tongued and plunged and tongued. Her mind curled through the sensational labyrinths till somebody touched her lightly and whispered, “Hurry, girl! Hurry! Proctor is waiting.” SIXALCHEMICAI knew a man named Faustus of Kundling, a little town near my home. When he studied at Cracow, he had learned magic, which was formerly keenly studied there and where public lectures were delivered about this art. Later he wandered about in many places and spoke about secret things. When he wanted to create a sensation in Venice, he announced that he was going to fly into the heavens. The Devil then lifted him up in the air, but let him fall to earth again, so that he nearly gave up the ghost again. —Johannas Manlius, 1565, Locorum Communium Colectunea