Despair

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 130 of 267 · 20 per page

• From Macho Sluts (1988)

  Pride (which clenches muscles and makes blows bruise instead of merely sting, which stiffens the neck and thickens the tongue until one cannot plead for mercy, which forbids the use of any clever, demeaning slave ploy to cajole the master and stay his anger) is the first thing to be thrown overboard. After all, what justification is there for pride when you are locked in a cage, you breasts are suffering, your hands are locked behind your back, your ass has been filled by a foreign object, and someone is beating you black and blue? Your bestial need to survive the ordeal in one piece makes pride superfluous. And the seeping fluid of sexual arousal that makes your thighs slip together as he punishes you makes pride seem hypocritical, not to mention pretentious. No, it is better to scream freely, without restraint, to plead for mercy, to cry, to struggle beautifully, to sweat and strain, to be marked and marked again, to ask him what he wants, to agree to everything he says, to ask for more if that is what he wants, to confess, to grunt like a pig or howl like a dog, to promise anything—anything—if only it will stop. Once the emotions have been simplified and the illusion of free will destroyed, the body also needs to purge itself. Dancing under agony, scant attention is left to control any sphincter or restrain excretion until it can be performed in a seemly, civilized manner. Now he was using a very thin riding crop. The pain escalated sharply. From the feel of it, it had a whalebone core. It was horrifying. Beyond expressing with a mere scream. She was convinced that the sweat rolling down her legs must be blood, knowing that it most certainly was not. It was too much—too much—too much for decency— So she pissed. Uncontrollably. From fear and anguish. All over herself, the floor of the cage, and anything else close enough to get splashed. Then he was enraged, as yellow drops of her urine beaded up on the toes of his mirror-shiny boots, and the strokes he laid on her with that evil, skinny crop made her shimmy as though she were possessed and yell until she lost her voice. When it stopped, she felt as if she were in the eye of a hurricane. There was respite from pain, but not from drama or tension.

• From The Incendiaries (2018)

  . . . hands splashed with blood, he said. We’re all here this Saturday morning, and I know I don’t need to tell you the truth that an unborn child has a heartbeat before it’s a month old. I don’t have to tell you that, within the first three months of fetal life, a human infant’s strong enough to grip a hand. But I’m not sure if it’s done much good, all this truth. What point it’s had, if you and I aren’t saving lives. Wind gusted, flapping nylon jackets. Instead of trying to talk across the noise, he held up his palm, indicating he’d wait. More people turned in his direction. The Lord is calling us, he said. But we’ve failed, you and I, in following Him. We’re living in a time of great evil. Rivers of blood, replenished with children’s bodies, are flooding this nation, and we’ve let the blood spill. If we are lukewarm, the Lord has said, He will spit us out of His mouth. I’ll ask you what I’ve asked myself, late at night, as I wait upon His Spirit: if the likes of you and I won’t be radical for God, who will? While he talked, his voice had risen. He finished with a shout, then he fell silent. The crowd around us was hushed, listening. Raising his head, he asked if he could get an amen. Several people replied; he asked again. This time, the amens belled toward him. I felt my ears ring. Yes, Lord, he said. Oh, Lord, I beg, be here with us. He called out the opening line of a hymn, one I recognized, and the crowd sang it back to him. Phoebe joined in, hands folded. She rocked back and forth, eyes closed, and I thought of the night we’d met, how she’d danced until she gasped for breath, holding the thick hair in a ponytail. It was damp at the tips. Sweat trickled down her slim throat. Phoebe’s rolling hips parodied that night; so, too, the rapt, upheld face. She’d told me, as she apologized, that he’d asked how I was doing with Jejah. He’d spoken with love, she said, and she’d responded in kind, without thinking. I’m not upset with you, I said. I wasn’t: she didn’t have to apologize. I felt a long confusion lifting. If anything, I should be grateful. For some time, I’d also failed to think. The crowd kept singing. I watched, alone. It was a horde, and they all had what I lacked. In what He’s credited to have said, the Lord is explicit. He insists on full, absolute devotion, nothing less. John Leal had that part right. But from the start, I’d obeyed His call. I’d pledged my life to Him, if to no avail, which left me believing God had to be nothing, a fiction; that, or He didn’t want me.

• From The Incendiaries (2018)

  I’d last heard from Fitz a week ago, before I decided to go to L.A. In the news, I’d been identified as Phoebe Lin’s old boyfriend; since then, I had reporters calling, along with patriots who wished me dead, in jail. Shot. Praised. So, when a restricted number flashed on my phone, I put it down. It rang again. It wasn’t until the fourth call that I answered. It’s Agent Fitz, she said. I’m hanging up. You don’t want to do that. I have news for you. I was in Norton Hall, going to class. Swerving left, I went into a single-person bathroom. I locked myself in. You had that footage when you talked to me, didn’t you? I said. With Phoebe. The tape. You lied to get me to tell— Don’t be a child. You knew what I was doing. If you didn’t, you’re a fool. I’m calling because I said I’d help find Phoebe, and I hold up my end of a promise. It’ll be out before long, but I wanted to tell you ahead of time. Fitz said that a man, a Noxhurst local, had been jogging down the Hudson. It was as he approached Hoyt Bridge that he glimpsed the long hair he’d seen in photos, a blue dress, falling from the rail. But Phoebe didn’t own blue clothing. She thought it washed out her skin. He didn’t see a face, so it might have been anyone. It could have been nothing at all: a flock of black-pinioned birds, flicking mid-flight, like a ponytail. The feathers shredding trapezoids of blue into the trick lines of a girl’s dress. Less than a mile from the clinic, he’d have had the attacks in mind. I let Fitz persist, talking, until she admitted they’d failed to find the alleged suicide’s body. Based on evidence I can’t disclose, she said, the bureau has concluded the man did, in fact, see Phoebe fall from a bridge. She sent you a note we had to intercept: I can’t give it to you, but I’ll make sure its contents are passed along. I have to go, I said. I switched off my phone; I laughed until I couldn’t breathe. That evening, I received an email from Fitz, the note digitized, then attached. I watched from the roof while God’s hand flattened the killing mill. I thought I’d see the face of God and live. Will, I’ve since learned that it’s possible to love life without loving mine. –

• From Macho Sluts (1988)

  By now, you are usually holding still, not making any noise at all, barely breathing, and my neck is starting to hurt and my hands are tingling. Perversely, just as I abandon my ego, I get very turned on to the idea of servicing you, of having you use my mouth for hours, and I start humping the bed and coming, about once every five to eight minutes. I come even if I hold my legs apart and try desperately not to, because it disrupts my rhythm and embarrasses me. Sometimes you catch fire from the noises I make and the groveling motions I’m making with my hips, and you make a little sex music with me, saying, “Oh, yeah, baby, go ahead, come, come now!” or simply moan and thrust yourself against my mouth. But I get progressively more depressed and full of despair anyway, because nothing seems to be happening or changing or getting better with your body and its physical response, and I want to make you come, I don’t want this to be for my benefit, you allowing me to suck you off—even though you don’t get off on it—simply because I get off on it. I start making questioning noises, asking you with whispers and moans or outright words if you want me to continue. You usually respond, “God, yes!” But sometimes you tell me, “No, you can stop now,” and I’m crushed, even if I know you are just trying to be kind, reluctant to wear me out when there’s no hope that it’s going to work. And I can understand that, because there are times when I’m not going to come, no matter what somebody does for me or to me. But I know I have failed you, failed to give you bliss and relief, and I will never be good for anything. I hate this feeling. Remembering it makes me renew my efforts around and around your clitoris (which is bigger and harder now, as big as the whole world to me), and dip my tongue down into your vagina to see how much you are lubricating. I have continually let saliva run out of my mouth to keep your clit wet, because you can’t come if it’s dry. This parches my mouth, so I start rationing swallows of spit—half a mouthful for your clit, half for me to keep my tongue from getting rough and my throat from tickling until I have to cough. Sometimes I slip lower and lick up and swallow a mouthful of my old spit and your sex juice, but this means leaving your clit, so I try not to do it too often. My neck really hurts.

• From Macho Sluts (1988)

  I begin to wonder if you are in a good enough space to be able to hold your cunt open for me for a few minutes, maybe take a break long enough for me to get a drink of water and work the blood back into my hands. I am never sure. Sometimes a request like this is enough to make you feel so guilty for “taking too long” that you break things off. I don’t want you to stop me now. I badly need to continue, to keep going, to keep you open to me, keep you believing in me and trusting and needing me. The safety of my whole world seems to depend on being granted the privilege of continuing to go down on you. Patiently, persistently, carefully, in agony and self-doubt, I keep caressing you, trying to duplicate again and again the same exact pattern of motion and pressure, the same degree of wetness and friction, and if you move or make a noise, I stop for a fraction of an instant, record what I was doing when you responded, and then try to make a copy of it between my lips and your sex. There is an erotic pressure between my own legs, a need to be fucked, to come, but I won’t let myself build up and cry out, thrashing against the mattress, one more time. I need you now, your orgasm, your climax, to put out the fire that’s raging inside of me. My own climax would bleed energy off from you, energy that you need to come. I don’t want to pay any attention to my own body, it’s whining pain and thirst, its nagging need to piss or come. It distracts me. I ignore it. But it clamors louder and louder, and sometimes I am humiliated by yet another orgasm of my own, which takes place in a state of despair and frustration that infuriates and devastates me. Still I work on and on, mechanically, softly, like the Colorado River carving the Grand Canyon one eon at a time, like a bird flying across the ocean that can’t stop no matter how tired she is because there is no place to land. Save me, give it to me, help me, seize my head between your thighs and drown me! Come, come! Sometimes, not all the time, at a time I am never able to predict and for reasons I still do not understand, you promise me a miracle. You begin to talk to me. After your long silence, it feels very odd, being talked to. I pay close attention to what you have to say. It must be important if you can’t keep quiet any more. “Oh, lover,” you say, “I’m going to come. Can you feel it? Lover!”

• From Macho Sluts (1988)

  Off.” Iduna had never had someone pay so much attention to her with such a look of utter indifference on their face. She had not anticipated this much resistance. This was even more difficult than locating her quarry in the first place. Clearly, the offer of her wrist was not enough. Perhaps scars annoyed them. She thought they had a heat-seeking sense, like rattlesnakes. She imagined that scars would be like cold streaks in the hot aura that radiated through the skin, making the marked person less appealing than someone with a smooth body. Perhaps this one was just fastidious about unzipping an old scar, thought of it as drinking from a glass someone else had already used. She probed again, looking for the weak spot, the turning point, the breaking point. “Do you prefer men, is that it? Is it because women are weaker, smaller, and too quickly drained? But then, I’ve never heard of you leaving anyone bloodless and dead. So why should it matter? I know most of you don’t need as much blood as the stories say you do. Too many of those legends are about stupid and greedy ones, the ones so unrelentingly selfish they got caught. Or the ones who unfortunately can’t live on anything other than human blood. Why are you denying yourself this much pleasure?” She dared to allow compassion to creep into her voice. “You must have had to develop an enormous amount of self-control and get awfully good at living in a constant state of deprivation. Is that why you stopped going after James, to prove that you could do without it if you had to? But it’s not necessary now. I want you to have me.” The stony face of the other said, “Don’t try to cozen me. In a thousand years, you could never understand what I am, where I have been, what living has done to me.” Iduna despaired. Her head drooped, and Kerry almost felt sorry for her. Then inspiration struck. “Or could it be that you would rather drink your life from a woman, hold her in your arms, slit her throat with your teeth, then eagerly gulp down what wells up around your mouth—yet you refuse to let yourself have me because you would enjoy it too much and then want it and need it again? Are you afraid you would lose control if you got what you really want?” There was no change in the other’s fighting stance and icy expression. The air between them simply became busier, hummed like a high-voltage wire, stank of ozone, seemed to turn an even darker shade of midnight blue. Now or never. It was the moment that would decide the outcome of the hunt. Iduna stared into Kerry’s eyes, covered with the reflecting aviators, and used the tiny portrait in them to guide her hand while she made two slashes at the place where her breasts came together, a little ‘v’ that fit into her cleavage.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  She described her mother who had died when Angela was twelve—a pathetic, inadequate creature; the descendant of women who had owned many slaves to minister to their most trivial requirements: ‘She could hardly put on her own stockings and shoes,’ smiled Angela, as she pictured that mother. She described her father, George Benjamin Maxwell—a charming, but quite incorrigible spendthrift. She said: ‘He lived in past glories, Stephen. Because he was a Maxwell—a Maxwell of Virginia—he wouldn’t admit that the Civil War had deprived us all of the right to spend money. God knows, there was little enough of it left—the War practically ruined the old Southern gentry! My grandma could remember those days quite well; she scraped lint from her sheets for our wounded soldiers. If Grandma had lived, my life might have been different—but she died a couple of months after Mother.’ She described the eventual cataclysm, when the home had been sold up with everything in it, and she and her father had set out for New York—she just seventeen and he broken and ailing—to rebuild his dissipated fortune. And because she was now painting a picture of real life, untinged by imagination, her words lived, and her voice grew intensely bitter. ‘Hell—it was hell! We went under so quickly. There were days when I hadn’t enough to eat. Oh, Stephen, the filth, the unspeakable squalor—the heat and the cold and the hunger and the squalor. God, how I hate that great hideous city! It’s a monster, it crushes you down, it devours—even now I couldn’t go back to New York without feeling a kind of unreasoning terror. Stephen, that damnable city broke my nerve. Father got calmly out of it all by dying one day—and that was so like him! He’d had about enough, so he just lay down and died; but I couldn’t do that because I was young—and I didn’t want to die, either. I hadn’t the least idea what I could do, but I knew that I was supposed to be pretty and that good-looking girls had a chance on the stage, so I started out to look for a job. My God! Shall I ever forget it!’ And now she described the long, angular streets, miles and miles of streets; miles and miles of faces all strange and unfriendly—faces like masks. Then the intimate faces of would-be employers, too intimate when they peered into her own—faces that had suddenly thrown off their masks. ‘Stephen, are you listening? I put up a fight, I swear it! I swear I put up a fight—I was only nineteen when I got my first job—nineteen’s not so awfully old, is it, Stephen?’

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Meanwhile, Gisippus abode in Athens, held in little esteem of well nigh all, and no great while after, through certain intestine troubles, was, with all those of his house, expelled from Athens, in poverty and misery, and condemned to perpetual exile. Finding himself in this case and being grown not only poor, but beggarly, he betook himself, as least ill he might, to Rome, to essay if Titus should remember him. There, learning that the latter was alive and high in favour with all the Romans and enquiring for his dwelling-place, he stationed himself before the door and there abode till such time as Titus came, to whom, by reason of the wretched plight wherein he was, he dared not say a word, but studied to cause himself be seen of him, so he might recognize him and let call him to himself; wherefore Titus passed on, [without noting him,] and Gisippus, conceiving that he had seen and shunned him and remembering him of that which himself had done for him aforetime, departed, despiteful and despairing. It being by this night and he fasting and penniless, he wandered on, unknowing whither and more desirous of death than of otherwhat, and presently happened upon a very desert part of the city, where seeing a great cavern, he addressed himself to abide the night there and presently, forspent with long weeping, he fell asleep on the naked earth and ill in case. To this cavern two, who had gone a-thieving together that night, came towards morning, with the booty they had gotten, and falling out over the division, one, who was the stronger, slew the other and went away. Gisippus had seen and heard this and himseemed he had found a way to the death so sore desired of him, without slaying himself; wherefore he abode without stirring, till such time as the Serjeants of the watch, who had by this gotten wind of the deed, came thither and laying furious hands of him, carried him off prisoner. Gisippus, being examined, confessed that he had murdered the man nor had since availed to depart the cavern; whereupon the prætor, who was called Marcus Varro, commanded that he should be put to death upon the cross, as the usance then was.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  So saying, she fell anew to weeping wonder-sore; whereupon quoth Antigonus to her, 'Madam, despair not ere it behove you; but, an it please you, relate to me your adventures and what manner of life yours hath been; it may be the matter hath gone on such wise that, with God's aid, we may avail to find an effectual remedy.' 'Antigonus,' answered the fair lady, 'when I beheld thee, meseemed I saw my father, and moved by that love and tenderness, which I am bounden to bear him, I discovered myself to thee, having it in my power to conceal myself from thee, and few persons could it have befallen me to look upon in whom I could have been so well-pleased as I am to have seen and known thee before any other; wherefore that which in my ill fortune I have still kept hidden, to thee, as to a father, I will discover. If, after thou hast heard it, thou see any means of restoring me to my pristine estate, prithee use it; but, if thou see none, I beseech thee never tell any that thou hast seen me or heard aught of me.' This said, she recounted to him, still weeping, that which had befallen her from the time of her shipwreck on Majorca up to that moment; whereupon he fell a-weeping for pity and after considering awhile, 'Madam,' said he, 'since in your misfortunes it hath been hidden who you are, I will, without fail, restore you, dearer than ever, to your father and after to the King of Algarve to wife.' Being questioned of her of the means, he showed her orderly that which was to do, and lest any hindrance should betide through delay, he presently returned to Famagosta and going in to the king, said to him, 'My lord, an it like you, you have it in your power at once to do yourself exceeding honour and me, who am poor through you, a great service, at no great cost of yours.' The king asked how and Antigonus replied, 'There is come to Baffa the Soldan's fair young daughter, who hath so long been reputed drowned and who, to save her honour, hath long suffered very great unease and is presently in poor case and would fain return to her father. An it pleased you send her to him under my guard, it would be much to your honour and to my weal, nor do I believe that such a service would ever be forgotten of the Soldan.'

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Then she noticed that on a shelf near the bottom was a row of books standing behind the others; the next moment she had one of these in her hand, and was looking at the name of the author: Krafft Ebing—she had never heard of that author before. All the same she opened the battered old book, then she looked more closely, for there on its margins were notes in her father’s small, scholarly hand and she saw that her own name appeared in those notes— She began to read, sitting down rather abruptly. For a long time she read; then went back to the bookcase and got out another of those volumes, and another. . . . The sun was now setting behind the hills; the garden was growing dusky with shadows. In the study there was little light left to read by, so that she must take her book to the window and must bend her face closer over the page; but still she read on and on in the dusk. Then suddenly she had got to her feet and was talking aloud—she was talking to her father: ‘You knew! All the time you knew this thing, but because of your pity you wouldn’t tell me. Oh, Father—and there are so many of us—thousands of miserable, unwanted people, who have no right to love, no right to compassion because they’re maimed, hideously maimed and ugly—God’s cruel; He let us get flawed in the making.’ And then, before she knew what she was doing, she had found her father’s old, well-worn Bible. There she stood demanding a sign from heaven—nothing less than a sign from heaven she demanded. The Bible fell open near the beginning. She read: ‘And the Lord set a mark upon Cain. . . .’ Then Stephen hurled the Bible away, and she sank down completely hopeless and beaten, rocking her body backwards and forwards with a kind of abrupt yet methodical rhythm: ‘And the Lord set a mark upon Cain, upon Cain. . . .’ she was rocking now in rhythm to those words, ‘And the Lord set a mark upon Cain—upon Cain—upon Cain. And the Lord set a mark upon Cain. . . .’ That was how Puddle came in and found her, and Puddle said: ‘Where you go, I go, Stephen. All that you’re suffering at this moment I’ve suffered. It was when I was very young like you—but I still remember.’ Stephen looked up with bewildered eyes: ‘Would you go with Cain whom God marked?’ she said slowly, for she had not understood Puddle’s meaning, so she asked her once more: ‘Would you go with Cain? ’ Puddle put an arm round Stephen’s bowed shoulders, and she said: ‘You’ve got work to do—come and do it! Why, just because you are what you are, you may actually find that you’ve got an advantage. You may write with a curious double insight—write both men and women from a personal knowledge.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  This being her daily usance, it chanced one day that, as she was occupied in bewailing herself, there came up a pirate galley, unobserved of any, sailor or other, and taking them all at unawares, made off with her prize. Madam Beritola, having made an end of her diurnal lamentation, returned to the sea-shore, as she was used to do, to visit her children, but found none there; whereat she first marvelled and after, suddenly misdoubting her of that which had happened, cast her eyes out to sea and saw the galley at no great distance, towing the little ship after it; whereby she knew but too well that she had lost her children, as well as her husband, and seeing herself there poor and desolate and forsaken, unknowing where she should ever again find any of them, she fell down aswoon upon the strand, calling upon her husband and her children. There was none there to recall her distracted spirits with cold water or other remedy, wherefore they might at their leisure go wandering whither it pleased them; but, after awhile, the lost senses returning to her wretched body, in company with tears and lamentations, she called long upon her children and went a great while seeking them in every cavern. At last, finding all her labour in vain and seeing the night coming on, she began, hoping and knowing not what, to be careful for herself and departing the sea-shore, returned to the cavern where she was wont to weep and bemoan herself. She passed the night in great fear and inexpressible dolour and the new day being come and the hour of tierce past, she was fain, constrained by hunger, for that she had not supped overnight, to browse upon herbs; and having fed as best she might, she gave herself, weeping, to various thoughts of her future life. Pondering thus, she saw a she-goat enter a cavern hard by and presently issue thence and betake herself into the wood; whereupon she arose and entering whereas the goat had come forth, found there two little kidlings, born belike that same day, which seemed to her the quaintest and prettiest things in the world. Her milk being yet undried from her recent delivery, she tenderly took up the kids and set them to her breast. They refused not the service, but sucked her as if she had been their dam and thenceforth made no distinction between the one and the other. Wherefore, herseeming she had found some company in that desert place, and growing no less familiar with the old goat than with her little ones, she resigned herself to live and die there and abode eating of herbs and drinking water and weeping as often as she remembered her of her husband and children and of her past life.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  “You must trust me, Martin.” And now she heard herself speaking very gravely: ‘ Would you trust me enough to do any- thing I asked, even although it seemed rather strange? Would you trust me if I said that I asked it for Mary, for her happiness? ’ His fingers tightened: ‘ Before God, yes. You know that I’d trust you! ” ‘ Very well then, don’t leave Paris — not now.’ ‘ You really want me to stay on, Stephen?,’ * Yes, I can’t explain.’ He hesitated, then he suddenly seemed to come to a decision: ‘Allright . . . I'll do whatever you ask me.’ They paid for their coffee and got up to leave: ‘ Let me come as far as the house,’ he pleaded. But she shook her head: ‘ No, no, not now. I’ll write to you - . very soon . . . Good-bye, Martin.’ She watched him hurrying down the street, and when he was THE WELL OF LONELINESS 501 finally lost in its shadows, she turned slowly and made her own way up the hill, past the garish lights of the Moulin de la Galette. Its pitiful sails revolved in the wind, eternally grinding out petty sins — dry chaff blown in from the gutters of Paris. And after a while, having breasted the hill, she must climb a dusty flight of stone steps, and push open a heavy, slow-moving door; the door of the mighty temple of faith that keeps its anxious but tireless vigil. She had no idea why she was doing this thing, or what she would say to the silver Christ with one hand on His heart and the other held out in a patient gesture of supplication. The sound of praying, monotonous, low, insistent, rose up from those who prayed with extended arms, with crucified arms — like the tides of an ocean it swelled and receded and swelled again, bathing the shores of heaven. They were calling upon the Mother of God: ‘ Sainte Marie, Mère de Dieu, priez pour nous, pauvres pêcheurs, maintenant et à Pheure de notre mort.’ * Et à Pheure de notre mort,’ Stephen heard herself repeating. He looked terribly weary, the silver Christ: ‘ But then He al- ways looks tired,’ she thought vaguely; and she stood there with- out finding anything to say, embarrassed as one so frequently is in the presence of somebody else’s sorrow. For herself she felt noth- ing, neither pity nor regret; she was curiously empty of all sen- sation, and after a little she left the church, to walk on through the wind-swept streets of Montmartre. “CHAPTER 56 y

• From Macho Sluts (1988)

  I hate his guts, and I will not squirm around on this horrid thing while he stands there staring at me and jerking off. Fuck him. “You stubborn, stupid, ungrateful, ill-trained bitch,” he cursed. “I don’t know why I bother. But if you think you’re going to start holding out on me at this stage of the game, shit-head, you better think again.” A puff of air cooled her backside, and she realized she was dripping with sweat and that both of her shining, wet ass cheeks protruded slightly outside the frame of the cell. Then the source of the cool breeze—the doubled-up belt—landed on her butt, and there was no thinking, only pain. Not only was she crying out with each solid, flat impact of the belt, she was moving her ass provocatively, helplessly. He didn’t have much of her to work on, so there was no hope that he would alternate blows upon her thighs and shoulders with the blows to her ass. Concentrated in such a small area, the beating hurt worse than it would have otherwise. There was no respite to gather courage and breath. So she tried to curve her lower back and thrust more of her ass through the bars, adding just another inch of available skin to spread the pain out and make it easier to take. She succeeded (at the cost of drawing her nipples out to maximum tautness in the clamps) in flattening her thighs against the bars, and the belt kissed them for a few seconds, but returned inexorably to her ass. Oh, yes, he was good. Thorough, hard, unstoppable. She had the feeling he could go on and on until she was deeply bruised, then bleeding, then showing bare bone through her flayed and shredded flesh. The pain was lightning in the marrow of her bones. And the animal noises she was making, the sweat flying into her eyes, hurt her pride just as much as the flying belt hurt her ass. Under severe and continuous pain, the soul reaches a certain kind of clarity. Confusion and hope cannot be tolerated. Anything that deflects energy from withstanding the pain becomes useless, impossible to hang onto. Such ballast is jettisoned automatically.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  I say, then, that the years [of the era] of the fruitful Incarnation of the Son of God had attained to the number of one thousand three hundred and forty-eight, when into the notable city of Florence, fair over every other of Italy, there came the death-dealing pestilence, which, through the operation of the heavenly bodies or of our own iniquitous dealings, being sent down upon mankind for our correction by the just wrath of God, had some years before appeared in the parts of the East and after having bereft these latter of an innumerable number of inhabitants, extending without cease from one place to another, had now unhappily spread towards the West. And thereagainst no wisdom availing nor human foresight (whereby the city was purged of many impurities by officers deputed to that end and it was forbidden unto any sick person to enter therein and many were the counsels given[4] for the preservation of health) nor yet humble supplications, not once but many times both in ordered processions and on other wise made unto God by devout persons,--about the coming in of the Spring of the aforesaid year, it began on horrible and miraculous wise to show forth its dolorous effects. Yet not as it had done in the East, where, if any bled at the nose, it was a manifest sign of inevitable death; nay, but in men and women alike there appeared, at the beginning of the malady, certain swellings, either on the groin or under the armpits, whereof some waxed of the bigness of a common apple, others like unto an egg, some more and some less, and these the vulgar named plague-boils. From these two parts the aforesaid death-bearing plague-boils proceeded, in brief space, to appear and come indifferently in every part of the body; wherefrom, after awhile, the fashion of the contagion began to change into black or livid blotches, which showed themselves in many [first] on the arms and about the thighs and [after spread to] every other part of the person, in some large and sparse and in others small and thick-sown; and like as the plague-boils had been first (and yet were) a very certain token of coming death, even so were these for every one to whom they came. [Footnote 4: Syn. provisions made or means taken (_consigli dati_). Boccaccio constantly uses _consiglio_ in this latter sense.]

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

  operation was abandoned, and various medicines purchased for the purpose were of no account. I have an impression that, if the physician had allowed the operation, the wound would have been easily healed. The operation also was to have been performed by a surgeon who was then well known in Bombay. But God had willed otherwise. When death is imminent, who can think of the right remedy? My father returned from Bombay with all the paraphernalia of the operation, which were now useless. He despaired of living any longer, He was getting weaker and weaker, until at last he had to be asked to perform the necessary functions in bed. But up to the last he refused to do anything of the kind, always insisting on going through the strain of leaving his bed. The Vaishnavite rules about external cleanliness are so inexorable. Such cleanliness is quite essential no doubt, but Western medical science had taught us that all the functions, including a bath, can be done in bed with the strictest regard to cleanliness, and without the slightest discomfort to the patient, the bed always remaining spotlessly clean. I should regard such cleanliness as quite consistent with Vaishnavism. But my father’s insistence on leaving the bed only struck me with wonder then, and I had nothing but admiration for it. The dreadful night came. My uncle was then in Rajkot. I have a faint recollection that he came to Rajkot having had news that my father was getting worse. The brothers were deeply attached to each other. My uncle would sit near my father’s bed the whole day, and would insist on sleeping by his bed-side after sending us all to sleep. No one had dreamt that this was to be the fateful night. The danger of course was there. It was 10-30 or 11 p.m. I was giving the massage. My uncle offered to relieve me. I was glad and went straight to the bed-room. My wife, poor thing, was fast asleep. But how could she sleep when I was there? I woke her up. In five or six minutes. however, the servant knocked at the door. I started with alarm. ‘Get

• From The Incendiaries (2018)

  But Jo claimed it was Phoebe who’d first raised questions about Phipps clinic. In the spring, she’d begun asking if they shouldn’t be doing more. Local clinic protests had declined in size. Every few minutes, children died. If they could, for instance, disable abortion facilities, the action would save lives. It would be the rational extension of what they believed. Since no one but John Leal had spoken, to date, with God, Phoebe asked if he’d take the question to Him. Jo didn’t think he would: in general, he’d told them what to do, not the reverse. Jo hadn’t learned what happened next. In mid-April, Jo’s parents, Sybil and Elijah Hilt, had realized that, despite the large allowance she received each month, Jo had drawn extra funds from her trust. Disturbed, suspecting drugs, they drove up to school. While questioning Jo, Sybil had noticed whip marks on the girl’s leg. They disregarded all attempts to explain; against Jo’s will, they’d taken her home, to Darien. She cut her wrists, then was hospitalized. John Leal had rented the upstate cabin to use as a spiritual retreat, starting in June, Jo said. They’d all given their savings to Jejah. Phoebe supplied the most—everything she had, as John Leal pointed out. By then, the group comprised six members, including Eric Cho, the newest recruit. Jo had left the cult before they started using the cabin, but if I tried, I could almost see the place in June. Birch branches gleaming white, like picked bones. They lit bonfires until the sweat flowed into tears. The light tinged the circling trees with blood. They fasted, atoned. Tired bodies ached with hope. Through a haze of smoke, stars smeared like souls fleeing this fallen earth. The night chill pricked Phoebe’s bare arms, as if with pinfeathers, and she felt the rush of flight, lifting up. In that isolated place, the plausible might crack open until she had the revelation she desired, a final, ecstatic fit— But no, she wasn’t the kind to have visions, no more than I’d been. I thought of what she’d said that last night, about acting as if she believed. From the start to the finish, Phoebe’s want of Christ had been based in logic. She wished upon God’s attested promises: the dead alive, a past repealed. This flawed world would pass, yielding to a place of undivided light. Since she lacked real belief, she might have resolved to match His pledge with action, proving the faith she craved. Then, in the final instant, she’d have required but a little hope, a short leap of faith. Soldiers require months of training, years, before they’re fit to battle, while all Phoebe had to do was put a truck in a parking lot. Several minutes’ conviction, and the building falls.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  I tell thee that Madam Ginevra thy wife hath under her left pap a pretty big mole, about which are maybe half a dozen little hairs as red as gold.' When Bernabo heard this, it was as if he had gotten a knife-thrust in the heart, such anguish did he feel, and though he had said not a word, his countenance, being all changed, gave very manifest token that what Ambrogiuolo said was true. Then, after awhile, 'Gentlemen,' quoth he, 'that which Ambrogiuolo saith is true; wherefore, he having won, let him come whenassoever it pleaseth him and he shall be paid.' Accordingly, on the ensuing day Ambrogiuolo was paid in full and Bernabo, departing Paris, betook himself to Genoa with fell intent against the lady. When he drew near the city, he would not enter therein, but lighted down a good score miles away at a country house of his and despatched one of his servants, in whom he much trusted, to Genoa with two horses and letters under his hand, advising his wife that he had returned and bidding her come to him; and he privily charged the man, whenas he should be with the lady in such place as should seem best to him, to put her to death without pity and return to him. The servant accordingly repaired to Genoa and delivering the letters and doing his errand, was received with great rejoicing by the lady, who on the morrow took horse with him and set out for their country house. As they fared on together, discoursing of one thing and another, they came to a very deep and lonely valley, beset with high rocks and trees, which seeming to the servant a place wherein he might, with assurance for himself, do his lord's commandment, he pulled out his knife and taking the lady by the arm, said, 'Madam, commend your soul to God, for needs must you die, without faring farther.' The lady, seeing the knife and hearing these words, was all dismayed and said, 'Mercy, for God's sake! Ere thou slay me, tell me wherein I have offended thee, that thou wouldst put me to death.' 'Madam,' answered the man, 'me you have nowise offended; but wherein you have offended your husband I know not, save that he hath commanded me slay you by the way, without having any pity upon you, threatening me, an I did it not, to have me hanged by the neck. You know well how much I am beholden to him and how I may not gainsay him in aught that he may impose upon me; God knoweth it irketh me for you, but I can no otherwise.' Whereupon quoth the lady, weeping, 'Alack, for God's sake, consent not to become the murderer of one who hath never wronged thee, to serve another! God who knoweth all knoweth that I never did aught for which I should receive such a recompense from my husband.

• From Understanding the Old Testament (2019)

  ECCLESIASTES AND THE “VANITY OF VANITIES” LECTURE 23 This lecture focuses on the book of Ecclesiastes. Many people who study this book find little hope in it. However, the book actually has a very profound message to it, which is revealed after the book’s meaning is unpacked. Situating the Book Most Bibles refer to this book as Ecclesiastes, but some Bibles call the book Qohelet. The Hebrew term Qohelet can be translated as meaning “someone who picks at ideas.” And the first-person author in this book is named Qohelet. The book opens with: “The words of David’s son Qohelet, king in Jerusalem.” Qohelet seems to be identified with King Solomon, son of Israel’s king, David. 23 l e CtU re 23 | eCC lesiastes and the “ vanity of v anities” 139 Solomon couldn’t have written this book. Solomon lived in the 9th century BCE. This is a very late book in the Old Testament collection. It was probably written somewhere between 275 and 250 BCE. That’s the Hellenistic period, when Greek rule and Greek culture infiltrated Judea and Jewish society. This raises a question: Why has the author chosen to put Solomon at the beginning of this book? In ancient Israel, the name Solomon meant “wisdom.” He was thought of as an overarching genius. This book is ascribed to Solomon. The book of Proverbs is ascribed to Solomon. An even later book in the Apocrypha is called Wisdom of Solomon. By putting Solomon into verse 1, the book is telling you the book contains practical advice on how to go through life and live happily. Perceived Hopelessness The second verse of the book sets out the argument: “vanity of vanities, says Qohelet; vanity of vanities—all things are vanity.” The term vanity here doesn’t mean obsession over one’s looks; instead it’s referring to futility—that is, doing something in vain. And “vanity of vanities” would be a superlative meaning “complete, utter futility.” Everything is arbitrary. Death cancels everything out. This idea is present in many places throughout Ecclesiastes. This is why many readers find the book hopeless. A Repeating Structure The book has a hidden structure. The pattern begins to emerge in chapter 3, using the phrase “I saw.” In verse 16, there is an experience that challenges Qohelet’s traditional views: “And still under the sun in the judgment place, I saw wickedness, wickedness also in the seat of justice.” He points out something that he has experienced; he saw wickedness in the courtroom, where one would expect there to be justice.

• From Understanding the Old Testament (2019)

  JOB’S SUFFERING AND UNDERSTANDING LECTURE 22 This lecture focuses on the book of Job. It follows the book’s storyline through its climax. At that point, the lecture explores several possibilities about what the text means. The Beginning of the Text Chapter 1 features a character called the Satan, which is not the same Satan as in later Jewish and Christian theology. The term Satan here is a noun that means “accuser.” God praises his servant Job as “blameless and upright, fearing God and avoiding evil.” However, the Satan replies that Job does so because God is rewarding him. 22 l e Ct Ure 22 | Jo B’s sUffering and Understanding 133 The satan’s argument is that sincere love for God is a lie. Religion is a camouflage for motivations that are economic, social, political, psychological, and cultural. God is ready to take him up on this challenge. In verse 12, “The Lord said to the Satan, ‘Very well. All that he has is in your power. Only do not lay a hand on him.’” In the rest of the prologue, all of Job’s children are killed. Job loses all of his property. However, Job is still righteous. The Satan asks for permission to strike him a little closer to home, and Job is hit with great illness. Job’s wife says, “Curse God and die.” Job refuses and says that he will not reject God. The Dialogue Eventually, three friends appear to “comfort” Job. Chapters 4 through 31 are a poetic dialogue between Job and his three friends. The three friends— Eliphaz, Bildad, and Zophar—argue that good things happen to good people, and bad things happen to bad people, and so Job must have done something wrong. Job suffering Understanding the o ld testament 134 The argument of Eliphaz accuses Job of undermining religion. In Job 15:4, Eliphaz says, “You, in fact, do away with piety, you lessen devotion towards God.” In other words, if people believe that Job has done no wrong and suffers anyway, then they’re not going to worship God. They’re going to think there’s no reward for being good, and they won’t be good. Job fundamentally agrees with the theology of his friends. He is upset, because he knows he has done no wrong and he is suffering. Job wants a chance to argue his innocence to God directly. God’s Appearance In chapter 38, God appears out of the whirlwind, exactly as Job has asked for. God proceeds over the next several chapters to ask questions that Job cannot possibly answer (but God can). Eventually, though, the book shifts back into prose. God restores Job’s prosperity, gives him a new set of children, and makes him very rich and prosperous. Job lives to be 140 years old and see his great-grandchildren. Job with his children

• From Macho Sluts (1988)

  I don’t want to pay any attention to my own body, it’s whining pain and thirst, its nagging need to piss or come. It distracts me. I ignore it. But it clamors louder and louder, and sometimes I am humiliated by yet another orgasm of my own, which takes place in a state of despair and frustration that infuriates and devastates me. Still I work on and on, mechanically, softly, like the Colorado River carving the Grand Canyon one eon at a time, like a bird flying across the ocean that can’t stop no matter how tired she is because there is no place to land. Save me, give it to me, help me, seize my head between your thighs and drown me! Come, come! Sometimes, not all the time, at a time I am never able to predict and for reasons I still do not understand, you promise me a miracle. You begin to talk to me. After your long silence, it feels very odd, being talked to. I pay close attention to what you have to say. It must be important if you can’t keep quiet any more. “Oh, lover,” you say, “I’m going to come. Can you feel it? Lover!” Now I am moving fast and sloppy, but it doesn’t matter, you will come now no matter what I do, and anyway we are finally in sync, finally in this together, your hips pumping into my mouth, my lips slipping up and down your clit and inner lips, my tongue pointed to catch the most sensitive peak of the glans. There is so much sex juice! Slippery mucus slides across my tongue and slips down my throat, oh that welcome, salty taste that proves you are turned on and wanting me, I spread the slipperiness of it across your cunt and smear it all over my face. I wish this happy time could last longer, but I know I am nearly used up, and I am unreasonably terrified that I will still somehow bumble and fail, even now; that what you have promised me will not be delivered through some sin or folly of mine. But you make sure that does not happen. Your thighs cross, my neck in between them, and you roll to the left, pinning me. You are incredibly strong during orgasm. I cannot pry myself loose or escape from you. And I don’t want to. I’m too busy struggling to keep my tongue tucked into the top of your slit, pushing my face up between your convulsing thighs which keep trying to shut me out, push me away from my food, my possession, my cunt.